


You Come Beating Like Moth's Wings

by supernope



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Traveling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 14:14:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 81,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernope/pseuds/supernope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry smiles. He's only known Louis for about two hours, knows nothing about him past his first name, but he's nice and sarcastic and helpful and so, so pretty. And Harry's still got a few days left in Barcelona, and he thinks he wouldn't mind spending them with Louis.</p><p>Also known as, Harry takes the summer before uni to travel Europe and meets Louis in Barcelona, and they end up traveling together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [You Come Beating Like Moth's Wings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3782983) by [bookends](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookends/pseuds/bookends)



> I thought this up back in January, but got sidetracked by school and....everything else I've written, HAH (93k in less than three months oh my god), and then totally forgot about it until yesterday. I've been blocked in everything else I'm writing for the past three weeks, but this just sort of worked, so here we are! As always, thanks to [Michelle](http://zaynsscentedpen.tumblr.com/) for reading over it for me, and to her and Paula for being the best, most encouraging friends ever.
> 
> I also want to add another massive thank you to my girl Paula, who has actually been to most of the cities I will be writing about. In addition to being a kickass beta/advice giver/hand holder, she has generously offered her opinion on tourist attractions and transportation and other tidbits of information vital to this fic. Title from Moth's Wings by Passion Pit.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _you come beating like moth's wings_  
>  _spastic and violently_  
>  _whipping me into a storm_  
>  _shaking me down to the core_
> 
> I should not have to ask this, but PLEASE DO NOT RE-POST MY FIC ANYWHERE. If I find out that my fic has been re-posted to any site, I will report that person to the site for plagiarism, whether credit was given to me or not.

Harry hitches his swim trunks up a little higher as he walks down La Rambla. He's just come from the beach, and the bottoms of his shorts are still heavy with seawater, sinking lower on his hips with every step he takes. There's so much to see - buckets of flowers, racks of fruit, trays of brightly colored candies. There are people painted bronze, posing like statues in the middle of the walkway, and there are patterned tiles underfoot, undulating gently like waves, and carts and kiosks selling food and drinks and all sorts of touristy items flanking both sides of the street.

He's only been in Barcelona for about twenty hours, the first stop on his pre-uni tour of Europe, but he's determined to get in the habit of sending home postcards and small knick knacks for his mum and sister as often as possible.

Overwhelmed by the sheer number of kiosks and storefronts, Harry picks one at random and shoulders the door open as he pulls his shorts up again. It's warm in the shop, and it's crammed with merchandise, from the usual t-shirts and snapbacks and miniature replicas of tourist attractions to hand woven blankets and jewelry made from local stones. He stops at a table littered with hemp necklaces and charms for bracelets and picks up a pair of earrings carved out of coral.

He's trying to decide between two different pairs when a voice says from behind him, "I think the red is more your color, mate."

Harry whirls around, earrings rattling against their plastic holders, to find a boy smirking at him, blue eyes twinkling in the sun streaming in through the windows. Harry clears his throat.

"They're for my sister."

The boy hums and edges closer so that he can peer down at the options. "Well, the red is nicer than this color here." He grabs the peach-colored ones out of Harry's hand and sets them back on the rack. "Are you dead set on that design though? Because it's a bit trite, if you ask me."

Harry stares dumbly down at the little red starfish. He'd thought they were kind of cute, and appropriate, considering they had come from the Mediterranean Sea.

"I guess not," he mumbles.

"What about these?" Harry turns to see the boy holding up a pair of red coral raindrop earrings framed in silver. "They're simple, but that means they'll be appropriate for a wider range of occasions, you know? Starfish are kitchy. These your sister can pair with a nice dress and wear to a cocktail party, or with a pair of jeans and wear to the park."

Harry hums thoughtfully and reaches a hand out so he can touch a fingertip to one of the earrings. He darts his gaze back to the boy, who's watching him expectantly, a hint of a self-satisfied smile curling his lips. "Do you work here?"

The boy snorts. "Hardly. I'm on vacation, like you. I was just in here looking for a new pair of flip flops, as mine broke this morning. Apparently, they were too fragile to go walking in the surf."

He shrugs nonchalantly, and Harry looks down, sees that he's not wearing any shoes at all.

"I'm Louis, by the way."

He looks back up, sees that Louis is holding a hand out to shake. Harry wipes his hand on his trunks, suddenly nervous, then remembers that they're still wet.

"Sorry," he mumbles as he places his damp hand in Louis'. "I'm Harry."

"Well, Harry," Louis says briskly. "Are we settled then?"

He wiggles the earrings. Harry bites his lip and looks back at the rack of jewelry, uncertain. His eyes are still drawn to the little starfish, but Louis is probably right.

"Sure," he says with a sigh, and Louis answers him with a bright smile.

"Fantastic! Anything else you wanted to pick up for your sister? Mum? Girlfriend?"

Harry blinks. "Don't you think it's a bit soon to be fishing for information like that, Louis?"

Louis just grins cheekily at him and shrugs again. "Never too soon, young Harold. Come on, let's see what else this shop has to offer."

He tucks the earrings into his palm and leads Harry down the aisle, pausing to browse through the selection of sandals.

****

By the time they stumble out of the shop, Harry's got a bag filled with the coral earrings, a shot glass, a pair of ridiculously large sunglasses that Louis insists draw attention away from his hair (Harry's not sure whether to be insulted or grateful for that one), and one of each postcard they had offered, and Louis is wearing a brand new pair of thongs and a brightly printed sarong, wrapped around his neck like a scarf. Harry scratches some dried salt off his stomach as he adjusts to the sunlight after the dimmer lighting of the shop.

"Hey, do you know where there's a post office around here?"

Louis purses his lips and looks up and down the street. "Yeah, I think.... I was here yesterday, and I found one on one of the side streets. Sent a few postcards back home. I don't remember the name of the street, but I'll know it when I see it. Come on, let's go find it."

He grabs Harry's hand and tugs him along, weaving expertly through pedestrians, eyes darting back and forth as they come up to different intersections. Harry tries not to think about how he's holding hands with a boy he's known all of thirty minutes. For all he knows, Louis could be a serial killer that prowls the tourist spots looking for easy targets. His mum had warned him before he'd left, worried that Harry's trusting nature would be dangerous when traveling alone, but something tells him that he doesn't need to worry about Louis.

It takes nearly an hour of wandering up and down La Rambla until Louis recognizes a delicatessen (Harry swears they've passed that shop about four times, but he isn't about to tell Louis that) and they turn onto a shady side street. Sure enough, there's a sign for the post office a few doors down, and they push inside, find a small square of counter space so that Harry can scrawl messages on the backs of the postcards, then stuff them, the earrings, and the carefully wrapped shot glass into a box and address it to home.

He lobs the empty bag into a trash bin as they leave the post office, and they pause in front of the building, facing each other. Louis shuffles his feet on the pavement, soles scuffing noisily against the ridges in the cement, and Harry watches him as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his shorts and hunches his shoulders.

"So," Louis starts, then sucks his bottom lip into his mouth.

"So," Harry repeats, amused and curious.

"D'you..." Louis pauses, jerks his head to the side so that his fringe swings out of his eyes. It's too dark in the shadow of the buildings to make out the blue of his eyes, but Harry can tell that Louis is looking up at him through his lashes. "Do you want to go get some coffee or something? There's a cafe the next street over that serves coffee with ice cream in it."

Harry smiles. He's only known Louis for about two hours, knows nothing about him past his first name, but he's nice and sarcastic and helpful and so, so pretty. And Harry's still got a few days left in Barcelona, and he thinks he wouldn't mind spending them with Louis.

"Sure."

 

“So,” Louis prompts as they sit at a table in front of the cafe. It’s gorgeous out - bright and sunny and breezy, and Harry waits for Louis to continue, watches Louis tip his head back and raise his face toward the sun briefly. He’s gorgeous - tanned skin stretched over high cheekbones and an angular jaw dusted with stubble, thick lashes casting sooty shadows over the tops of his cheeks. Harry stares unabashedly, doesn’t look away when Louis lowers his head and turns his attention back to Harry, an eyebrow quirked in amusement.

“So,” he repeats. “What’s your deal?”

“My deal.”

Louis nods. “What’s a kid like you doing in Barcelona by yourself?”

Harry snorts. “I’m eighteen, thanks. I finished college and wanted to do a bit of traveling before uni, you know?” Harry props his chin in his hand and gives his coffee a stir with the other. “What about you?”

“I just finished my second year of uni, decided I needed a break, even if it was just for the summer. So I packed a bag, left my flatmate a note, and bought a ticket to Spain. Been here three days.”

“Are you just staying here, then?”

“Nah.” Louis shrugs and takes a sip of his coffee, licks off the ice cream mustache it leaves behind. “I’m making my way east. I don’t really have a plan, though. Been waiting for the right time to move on. A sign, if you will.”

Harry cocks his head, drops his gaze to where he’s drawing lines in the condensation on his glass. “What do you reckon it’ll be, this sign?”

“Hmmm, I dunno.” Louis’ tone is teasing, and when Harry looks up at him, the corners of his mouth are curved up into a coy smile. “I’ll know it when I see it, though.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _you come beating like moth’s wings_  
>  spastic and violently  
> whipping me into a storm  
> shaking me down to the core

They chat while they drink their coffees, talk a little bit about themselves and their families. Harry learns that Louis is twenty, has four younger sisters, and that his mum is a nurse; learns that leaving home for uni, leaving his family, was the hardest thing Louis has ever done. In turn, Harry talks about his mum, stepfather, and sister, tells Louis he thinks he wants to be a lawyer, but hasn't decided what to study at uni yet. Louis assures him there's time, tells him to enjoy his summer off, then asks him what he's seen of Barcelona so far. Harry hasn’t seen much – spent yesterday in the Gothic Quarter, then visited the Basilica that morning and spent the rest of the day at the beach.

"I was thinking about checking out the Magic Fountain this evening, then going up to Montserrat tomorrow," Harry says as he spoons the last of his ice cream out of his glass and into his mouth. "Have you been?”

Louis shakes his head. “I had considered it, but it sounded quite boring by myself. And I’ve got to be motivated to do anything that involves exercise, if I’m honest.”

Harry laughs. “Did you have anything planned for tomorrow?”

“I don’t know... not sure I should tell you,” Loius says with a smirk.

Harry scowls and says, offended, "Why not?"

Louis sets his elbows on the table and leans over his arms, deadpans, “What if you’re secretly a serial killer, trying to lure me up into the mountains so no one will ever find my dismembered body?”

“Hey,” Harry protests. “I could say the same about you! You’re the one who approached _me_ , you know.”

Louis waves a hand dismissively. “Please, do I look like a serial killer?” He widens his eyes and presses a hand to his chest, says with exaggerated innocence, “I promise your limbs will remain intact.”

“That makes me feel much better, thanks Louis,” Harry giggles. They’re silent for a moment, just staring at each other and grinning stupidly, then Harry says, “Well? Montserrat, what do you say?”

Louis lets out a put-upon sigh, but there's a hint of a smile on his face when he says, “Since you asked so nicely.”

Harry beams at him. “Excellent. What d’you think, quarter to ten? We could meet at the Placa d’Espanya train station and go from there.”

“Fine. Just so you know, though, I’m not usually up and functional before eleven, so you should appreciate what I’m agreeing to here.”

Harry laughs and says, voice solemn, “I’m honored, Louis, truly.”

They gather up their glasses and spoons and carry them back into the cafe, then turn back out onto La Rambla. As they near the train stations, Louis says, “Right, if you take the L3, you can get to the Magic Fountain without switching.”

Harry stops walking. “You’re not coming?”

“Oh. I've been already, but sure.”

Harry chews on his lip and looks down at the ground. There’s a flyer for something that looks like an art museum with a hole worn into the corner from being trodden on and a few crushed cigarette butts. He toes at the flyer and tries to keep the disappointment out of his voice when he says, “You don’t have to, we can just meet up tomorrow, it’s alright -”

But Louis puts a hand on his arm and says, “Really, it’s fine. I didn’t realize you wanted me to come with you, and it's lovely. And free," he says with a wink. "I wouldn't mind going again. Come on, let’s get that train. It’s already after six, if we get there early enough, we can get a good spot before it gets dark.”

Harry lets Louis lead him to the subway with a hand bracketed loosely around his wrist. They squeeze onto it, pressed close in the packed car, and Harry tries not to look down at Louis while their chests are sandwiched together, focuses instead on the map over their heads. It reminds him of London.

“You know,” Louis says conversationally as the train rumbles underneath them, breath coming out in hot puffs against Harry’s collarbone, “You didn't even try to convince me that _you’re_ not an axe murderer.”

 

~~

 

Harry leans against the wall of the train station, a cardboard cup of tea in each hand. He’s early, had overestimated how long it would take to get from his hostel to the station with a stop for breakfast along the way. He cradles the cups against his chest and tips his head back against the wall, lets his eyes wander as he people watches.

It’s too late in the morning for commuters, but tourist season is in full swing, and Harry entertains himself with trying to guess where people are from by their clothing and the languages they speak as they breeze past him.

He’s cataloged German, Portuguese, Japanese, American, and South African by the time Louis shows up, eyelids heavy and a knitted beanie tugged low over his hair. Harry smiles and holds one of the cups out.

“Morning, sunshine,” he chirps, and Louis glares at him, but he takes the cup anyway, holds it up to his face and inhales. It’s still chilly in the mornings and they’re going up into the mountains, so Louis’ got a thick jumper on, sleeves tugged down over his hands, and he looks so warm and cuddly that Harry kind of wants to hug him. Instead, he takes a sip of his own tea and looks over at a group of Australians that are consulting a map of the different train routes.

“Mmm, tea,” Louis breathes reverently. “Bless you.”

Harry grins, then uses his free hand to dig into his back pocket. He pulls out a pair of tickets and waves them in the air. “Got our train passes, come on. It leaves in ten minutes, let’s go wait for it so we can try and get good seats. It’s an hour ride.”

Louis groans, but he follows Harry through the station. The train is already there, doors open, so they shuffle on board and pick seats halfway down the car. It’s warm on the nearly empty train, and Harry sips his tea quietly, sneaks glances at Louis while they wait for the train to leave. He’s got his eyes closed, head resting against the back of the seat, tea clasped loosely between his updrawn knees, and his breath is coming out soft and even.

“‘M not sleeping,” Louis mumbles suddenly, and Harry laughs nervously, caught.

“Uh,” he flounders for an excuse for staring, comes up with, “I thought you might like to listen to some music? We can share my earphones.”

Louis hums and wiggles around on the seat, cracks one eye open and looks up at Harry consideringly. “Depends on what we’re listening to.”

Harry bends down to dig through his satchel, comes out with his phone and hands it to Louis wordlessly. He watches Louis scroll through the list of artists.

“Are you serious with this?” Louis waves the phone at Harry.

“What? Of course, why?”

“You’ve got...” Louis looks back down at the screen. “The Backstreet Boys, Bon Iver, Daft Punk, The Vaccines, Foo Fighters, Two Door Cinema Club, Metallica, the _entire Wicked soundtrack_ -”

“Hey! Wicked is a West End _classic_.”

“Yeah, I’m not saying...” Louis trails off, stares at Harry for a moment before laughing. “You are very strange, you know that?”

Harry shrugs. “Give me the phone. I’ll make us a playlist.”

Louis holds it out, but jerks it back before Harry can take it. Harry makes a noise of protest, but Louis just squints at him and says, “No Metallica. It is way too early for that.”

Harry nods his agreement, but when he grabs for the phone, Louis twitches it away again.

“And no Wicked. I don’t care how legendary it is, if I have to sit through Defying Gravity at any point on this train ride, I am shoving you off the side of the mountain.”

“Fine,” Harry mutters, and he snatches it out of Louis’ hand, slumps back against the seat while he contemplates his music selection. He thumbs open a new playlist, names it ‘train jamz,’ then glances sidelong at Louis, and with a little grin, starts singing softly, “Something has changed within me, something is not the same...”

 

“Wow,” Harry whispers. The mountains fill the skyline before them, ashy gray and pale red stone exposed and molded by weather and time. Grass and shrubs creep up the sides of the mountains, nestling into cracks and blanketing the stone terraces. And there, settled on a plateau, is the Monastery, a network of stone buildings with small, rectangular windows and Spanish tile roofs.

“It’s not quite like home, is it,” Louis asks, and Harry shakes his head.

“Not quite, no.” He feels Louis shiver next to him, but he resists the urge to wrap his arm around him. It’s probably too soon for that.

“It’s sort of creepy, isn’t it, though? They look like giant men guarding the monastery or something.”

Harry hums absently as he studies the rock formations. He glances around the cable car, frowns at the windows that are reflecting his face back at him. He tests a glass pane with his palm. “I wish I could open one of these and get a proper photo.”

He skims his fingertips around the edges of the window, looking for a latch, starts when Louis wraps a hand around his wrist and drags his arm back down.

“Don’t,” Louis says insistently. “Just take one through the glass?”

Harry glances down at him, brow furrowed. Louis looks nervous, eyes darting from window to window, then down toward the gorge below them. Harry turns his hand over in Louis’ grip, grasps his arm and squeezes reassuringly. “Yeah, okay. Of course.”

 

Louis’ nervousness is forgotten the moment they step off the cable car and onto solid ground. It’s cold up on the mountain, and Harry and Louis huddle together as they make their way over to the monastery. The rocks don’t look quite so menacing close-up, like an oil painting that looks like a picture from afar, but as you get closer, starts to just look like haphazard strokes of paint on a canvas.

They stop just inside the doors so that they can study a tour guide pamphlet out of the path of the biting wind.

“You know,” Louis says, “I don’t think I’d like being a monk.”

Harry snorts. “Why’s that? Too isolated for you?”

Louis doesn’t answer, and when Harry looks up, he sees that Louis is staring at him, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “ _Sex_.”

“Oh.” Harry flushes, skin going warm under his jumper. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other so they aren’t pressed quite so close together anymore. “Right.”

They’re silent after that, both staring down at the pamphlet in Harry’s hand. After a moment of scanning the page distractedly and not comprehending anything, Harry clears his throat and says, “Well, I don’t really think we need to see the boys’ choir...”

Louis shakes his head. “Children singing. Creepy. Pass.”

“And we’re not going rock climbing,” Harry says, but it’s more of a question than a statement. He’s never been rock climbing before, doesn’t really fancy trying it out, but if Louis really wants to, he supposes he could give it a go.

Louis laughs. ”Not on your life, mate.”

“Good,” Harry breaths out in relief. “Well then I guess we should just... walk around?”

“Sounds good to me,” Louis says with a nod. Harry tucks the pamphlet into his satchel and they trail after a group of girls in parkas worthy of the North Pole.

Harry takes pictures of everything. He likes to document, stores up memories through photos and a carefully kept trip diary that he keeps in his bag and updates as often as possible. His mum had tried to buy him a digital camera for his birthday, but he’d told her to spend her money elsewhere. There was a perfectly good camera built into his phone, and it was an easy way to keep everything in one place, was one less thing he needed to keep track of. She had joked that his entire life was on that phone, and Harry hadn’t disagreed. He doesn’t mind though, makes sure to back it up every few days just in case.

He keeps his phone out as they walk through the Monastery, snapping photos of anything that catches his eye - paintings, beams of light streaming in through a window, people looking quietly up at statues with reverent expressions on their faces. He also takes photos of Louis when he’s not looking - the side of his face as he reads a plaque, a flash of his ankle as they walk down the corridors, his hand as he trails it along the wall behind him. He figures he’s probably not really helping fight the serial killer image Louis had teased him about, but Louis is just so lovely to look at.

Once they’ve seen everything there is to see in the Monastery, they fight their way through the crowd queueing up to listen to the choir in the Basilica and make their way back out of the building. There’s a map over by the information booth, and they pause to look at it.

“Hey, do you want to take a walk? There’s an overlook up here that looks out over the Pyrenees.” Harry points to a spot on the map, and Louis squints down at it.

“It’s a two hour hike,” he says doubtfully.

“We can take it slow, we’re not pressed for time.”

“Can we grab some waters before we go?”

They buy bottles and some snacks in the gift shop and tuck them into Harry’s bag, then follow the signs to the walkway. The views are stunning every way they turn, and partway through the hike, Louis wraps an arm around Harry’s waist to steady him so he won’t trip over the stone steps every time he goes to take a photo as they walk.

It takes them nearly three hours to reach the lookout point, and when they get there, Harry drops his arms and looks out at the landscape. He just stands there taking in the view for a few minutes, Louis standing quietly beside him, then breathes out, “Wow.”

“You know, I’m more of a beach guy, myself,” Louis says casually, and Harry turns to him, mouth hanging open. Louis shrugs defensively. “What! I like to surf.” When Harry just stares at him blankly, Louis says, “But this is lovely too!”

“Unbelievable,” Harry mutters as he turns back to look over the ledge. He takes a panoramic shot, a few regular photos from various angles, then turns to Louis and holds out a hand. “Take a photo with me.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Really? We’ve only known each other for like a day.” Harry blinks at him, resists the urge to just drag him against his side. Louis sighs, but there’s a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “Fine, come on then.”

Harry holds his arm out and waits for Louis to fit himself against his side. Louis sneaks a hand up underneath the hem of his jumper, fingers cold against Harry’s skin, and Harry presses his lips together to fight a smile as he thumbs the camera open on his phone and holds it up. He lets the smile spread as he frames them in and tries to fit in as much of the background as he can.

“Smile,” he instructs with a squeeze to Louis’ shoulder, then he presses the shutter button. He takes two more photos for good measure, then lets his hand slide off Louis’ shoulders, flips open his bag and roots through it. “Hey Louis, want the crisps?”

They find a spot to sit a few feet away from the railing, where the face of the mountain blocks most of the wind, and share a bag of crisps and a candy bar. The view is breathtaking and Louis is warm beside him, and Harry sighs happily, pleased that Louis had agreed to join him. They don’t speak as they eat, content to just look out at the landscape and observe the other tourists as they come and go.

When they’ve finished the snacks, Harry balls the wrappers up and sticks them back in his bag before pushing to his feet. Louis is still sitting on the ground, knees drawn up against his chest, and he smiles sleepily up at Harry. Harry cocks his head to the side, returns the smile easily.

“You ready to head back?”

“Sure,” Louis nods. Harry holds a hand out, waits for Louis to take it, then drags him to his feet. Louis stumbles a little as he straightens up, then wraps his arms around himself and tucks his nose down into the collar of his jumper, looks up at Harry through his lashes. “It’s bloody freezing up here.”

The sun is low in the sky by the time they get back to the Monastery, and they decide to head back to Barcelona. Louis presses his face into the curve of Harry’s shoulder while they’re in the cable car, and Harry rubs a hand over the fluttering in his belly, turns his face away to hide a grin. They both fall asleep the moment the train back to town lurches into motion, and Harry wakes up some time later with Louis’ finger poking into his side. He pries his eyes open and blinks blurrily up at Louis.

“Next stop is us,” Louis says, voice still thick with sleep, and Harry grumbles his understanding as he clasps his hands together and stretches his arms over his head. Trains are not the most comfortable place to sleep.

They stumble up the train station staircase and onto the street, and Harry lets out a small sigh at the fresh breeze, ruffles his hair and looks around. It’s mostly dark out, air chilled from the lack of sun, and Harry is so tired he feels like he could just lie down on the pavement and go back to sleep. He turns to Louis.

“That was fun.”

Louis nods. He’s chewing on his thumb nail as he looks up at Harry, eyes dark in the shadows between streetlamps, and it’s a moment before he drops his hand and says, “So, what are your plans for tomorrow?”

Harry’s brow furrows as he tries to think back to the rough itinerary he had worked up. In the end, he has to pull out his diary. He angles it toward one of the lamps and says, “I was thinking about Guell Park? And there’s a Guell Palace by La Rambla, as well, that looked nice. Figured I could have lunch on La Rambla after the park, then go to the palace. Maybe end the day at the beach.”

Louis bobs his head. “Solid plan. I’ve heard good things about that park.”

Harry tries not to smile at Louis’ forced casualness, but it’s difficult. He can feel the corners of his lips curling up despite his efforts, and he schools his tone into one of nonchalance. “Did you want to join me?”

“Oh,” Louis says, like he’s surprised. It’s dark enough now that Harry thinks Louis probably won’t be able to see him roll his eyes.

“Did _you_ have anything planned for tomorrow,” Harry asks, though he thinks he knows the answer.

Louis shoves his hand up under his beanie so he can scratch at the back of his head. “Well, no, not really. I was probably just going to go back to the beach.”

“Well, you can still do that if you come out with me. Just after we go to the park and to a castle.”

Louis snorts. “It’s not a castle, Harry.”

Harry shrugs. “They call it a palace, I call it a castle.” He reaches out and pokes Louis in the shoulder. “What do you say, Lou? Fancy a travel buddy for the next few days?”

He can see Louis’ lips twist into a smile, does a mental fistpump.

“Sure, why not,” Louis says, and Harry beams at him.

“Great! How about we meet here at 10 again?”

“Ugh,” Louis groans. “Don’t you ever sleep in?”

Harry blinks at Louis. “That is sleeping in.”

“Gross.” Louis looks off to the side for a moment, and Harry watches him, watches the way the light from the lamps overhead play across his cheekbones and the way his fringe is feathered across his forehead, watches the way he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth as he considers. When Louis turns back around, Harry blinks rapidly and tries to make it look like he hasn’t just been staring intently at him. “Fine. But you’re bringing me tea again.” Harry nods, and Louis tacks on as an afterthought, “And maybe a danish, as well. Cheese, I don’t want any of that fruity nonsense.”

Harry grins and holds out a hand, waits for Louis to take it. His hand is so small that Harry’s completely envelops it, and he gives it a gentle shake. “Deal.”

 

~~

 

For the next three days, Harry and Louis meet at Placa d’Espanya and set out around the city. They visit Guell Park, have lunch on La Rambla, then visit the Guell Palace. They spend nearly an entire day at Castell Montjuic, then visit the the Arc de Triomf, which Louis insists is inferior to the Arc in Paris. They spend a few hours at the aquarium on Friday, then the rest of the day at the beach, and at dinner that night in Little Barcelona, Harry says, hesitant, “So, tomorrow I was going to tour El Palacio de la Musica Catalana.”

Louis grins at Harry. “Are you proud of yourself for getting that out?”

Harry smiles. “Yeah, it felt very authentic. I could be a local.” Louis snorts. “Anyway, I was going to go to the Palace...”

He pauses, waits for Louis to look up from his paella. “Yeah?”

Harry bites his lip. He’s suddenly nervous, though he knows there’s no reason for him to be. He’s only known Louis for five days, he’s not going to plan his entire vacation around Louis, and isn’t sure he has the right to ask Louis to change his own plans around. He clears his throat and sets down the prawn he had been lifting to his mouth. “Then I was going to leave. For Madrid.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Harry wipes his hands on his napkin, then scratches his nose. “It’s just, I had it all planned out from the beginning, and I know certain cities are going to take more time than others, and I just -”

“Harry.” Louis cuts into his rambling with a hand on his wrist. “It’s alright. I knew you were going to leave eventually, it’s not like we’re traveling together or anything. You don’t need to run everything by me first.”

Harry presses his lips together. He knows what Louis is saying is true, knows that, despite having spent the last five days together, they barely know each other, but it still kind of hurts to hear it aloud. He’s gotten rather attached to Louis over the past few days. He opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it again, looks down at his plate while he considers how to phrase his thoughts.

In the end, he just looks back up at Louis and says, against his better judgment, “We could, though. If you wanted.”

Louis frowns around a mouthful of food, swallows and says, “Could what?”

Harry swallows around his nerves, twists his fingers together on the table in front of him. “Travel together.”

Louis freezes.

“Sorry,” Harry says quickly. He waves his hands in the air and says, “Sorry, forget I said that. We barely know each other, that was weird, and now I’ve gone and made it awkward.”

He drops his gaze to his plate and glares down at it, fuming at himself.

“It’s not...” Harry doesn’t look up, just shakes his head and waits for Louis to let him down easy. Louis sighs and says, “Harry, it’s okay, you didn’t make it weird. Well, maybe a little, but it’s okay, really. Look at me, Jesus, your prawns are not that interesting.”

Harry lifts his head reluctantly, raises his eyes to Louis’. Louis doesn’t look creeped out, he notes with some relief. His expression is soft, even though the corners of his lips are turned down in a hint of a frown.

“I’ll think about it, alright?” Louis reaches out and taps Harry’s wrist with the tips of his fingers. “Come on, let’s finish dinner. I want to go back to the Magic Fountain.”

Harry nods and drops Louis’ gaze. They finish their food in silence. He’s so embarrassed that he can’t even muster up a smile when Louis kicks at his ankle under the table, then hooks his foot around the back of his leg and leaves it there. Harry insists on paying for dinner to compensate, despite Louis’ protests, then they decide to walk to the fountain, rather than get a train.

They get lost a few times, and ten minutes into the walk, Louis loops his arm through Harry’s and tugs him close. In the end, it takes them nearly an hour to get to the fountain, but it’s late enough that there’s not too much of a crowd. The water is still lit up, pink and yellow blending into orange, green sprouting out from the center, and Harry sighs as they come to a stop at the edge of it, tucks his hands into his pockets and lets his shoulders slump.

When Louis rests his head on his shoulder, Harry tips his own head to the side, presses his cheek against the top of Louis’ and watches the water leap and the lights change.

There’s a man selling churros a little ways down, and Louis drags Harry over to the man’s cart and buys them each a churro, then they head over to sit on the stairs beside the fountain. They have to turn around to be able to see the fountain as they sit on the steps, but Harry twists his body around and rests an elbow on the stair above him, stares at the spray as he eats his churro and tries not to think about how weird it’s going to be to travel alone after the last five days. He doesn’t react when Louis drapes an elbow over his knee from the step below, doesn’t move when Louis tilts his head to rest against his side. Once he’s finished his churro, he crumples the wax paper into a ball and closes his fist around it, continues to watch the fountain.

Finally, Louis breaks the silence. “Okay.”

Harry presses his lips together, watches the water turn from yellow to orange to red and then back again before looking down at Louis. “Okay what?”

“I’ll go to Madrid tomorrow.”

Harry stares down at Louis. His arm is still draped over Harry’s thigh, but he’s sitting up straight now, expression serious as he looks up at Harry. “What? Wait, really? Why? I thought you were waiting for a sign.”

Harry can’t help the way his eyes roll as he says that. It sounds so ridiculous.

Louis just shrugs. “I think you were my sign.”

He sounds so utterly sincere that Harry’s heart stutters in his chest. “Oh.”

Louis’ eyes go wide, and he says hurriedly, “I mean, I’ve only been here two weeks, but I was already out of things I wanted to do besides lie out on the beach before you showed up. So, you know. When I say you were ‘the sign,’ I mean you’ve saved me from drowning myself in the Mediterranean out of sheer boredom, and that’s pretty wicked of you. So I should probably stick with you. To avoid rash behavior.”

Harry smirks. “Right.”

“Exactly,” Louis says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three coming soon. As always, feedback is appreciated! (Here or on [tumblr](http://supernope.tumblr.com/).) :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So basically, the rest of the chapters would not be possible without my main babe Paula, who helped me figure out all of the touristy things because I have not actually been to any of the cities the boys visit, sob. And of course, thanks to my other main babe [Michelle](http://goddamnitharold.tumblr.com/) for being awesome and proof-reading and listening to me whine.
> 
>  
> 
> _you come beating like moth’s wings_  
>  spastic and violently  
> whipping me into a storm  
> shaking me down to the core  
> 

Harry spends the train ride to Madrid composing an email to his family while Louis dozes on his shoulder. He’s snoring softly, feet propped up on his backpack and face nuzzled into the crook of Harry’s neck. One of his hands is resting, warm and heavy, on Harry’s knee, and Harry can’t stop looking down at it and smiling. He can feel the slow expansion and contraction of Louis’ chest against his arm, the heat of Louis’ skin bleeding through his clothes, and he feels kind of quietly anxious - like the swoop in the pit of your stomach right before the big drop on a roller coaster, or the nervous flutter of butterflies right before asking someone out on a first date.

He hasn’t emailed his mum since before Montserrat, had opened his inbox once the train started moving to a handful of emails that increased in irritation and worry the more recent they got. The last one, from earlier that morning, simply says:

_If you have been kidnapped in Spain, I will kill you._

_Love, mum_

He’s been trying to formulate a response for nearly an hour now, but he’s not quite sure what to say, how much he can tell her without freaking her out. He looks down at Louis’ hand on his knee again, chews on his bottom lip as he starts to type out a reply. In the end, he tries to explain Louis as casually as possible - says he’s met someone from Doncaster who is also touring Europe, mentions that they explored Barcelona together and have ended up on the same train to Madrid, then attaches the picture of them from Montserrat. After that, he tells them about all of the places he’s been, puts a few more photos into the email, and promises to send more frequent updates.

He signs off with an entire row of x’s, then reads over the message to make sure he’s not spelled anything wrong and that it doesn’t sound like he’s picked up a stranger, even though that is essentially what he’s done. Satisfied that it all sounds very light and not at all like they’re shagging, he sends the email, then shuts his phone off to preserve battery.

  


 

The weather in Madrid is perfect - balmy and breezy and just cloudy enough to block out the worst of the heat. It’s late by the time they get in, sun setting behind the mountains in a show of soft purples and pinks that fade to inky blue, but the city is lit up in welcome, street lamps and the headlights of cars winking like stars.

Their hostel is just outside of the city center, so they drop their bags off and venture out in search of dinner. Lured in by the spicy scent of cooking meat, they end up with kebabs from a street vendor, settle on a bench in Plaza de España facing the statue of Cervantes to eat them. The park is quiet at night, too dark for tourists to get proper photos, and the only sound is the distant passing of cars and faint chatter from people walking along Gran Via.

“Did you ever read _Don Quixote_?” Louis asks, kicking his feet out so the soles of his trainers scuff the pavement. Harry hums around a mouthful of kebab.

“No, we didn’t really focus on Spanish lit.” He slants a look at Louis. “You?”

Louis tilts his head toward Harry and smirks. “It was assigned.” He shrugs and takes a bite of his kebab. “I think I read one assigned book my entire time in sixth form.”

Harry snorts. “And which novel was that?”

He turns his head so he can watch the way Louis screws up his face in thought, nose scrunched up, eyes glittering in the lamplight as he looks up at the sky. The dim light from distant lamps cast shadows in the hollows of his cheeks and along the cut of his jaw, and it amazes Harry, how he manages to be both beautiful and cute at the same time.

“Oh, right. _Lord of the Flies_.”

“Of course,” Harry says with a laugh.

“What?” Louis looks at Harry, mouth turned down into a vaguely offended frown.

“The one novel you chose to read was about children murdering each other.”

“And it was the first and last assigned work I ever read. With good reason.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but he bumps Louis’ shoulder with his own. “You do know not all novels are as disturbing as _Lord of the Flies_ , yeah?”

Louis shrugs. “I’m not really into the whole books... thing.”

“It’s called reading, Lou,” Harry says, amused. as he finishes off his kebab. Louis waves his hand around.

“Details.”

“Reading is good for you, you know. You learn a lot from books.”

Louis pats Harry’s thigh. “Babe. There’s a reason I’m studying drama and not English.”

Harry ignores the little curl of warmth in his gut at Louis’ hand on his leg and the way he called him babe, instead shakes his head and smiles fondly down at him. “‘S probably a good thing, too. Your vocabulary and knowledge of classic literature is sadly lacking.”

“Hey, rude!” Louis digs his elbow into Harry’s side, and Harry giggles and squirms away. “I get by.”

“Mm,” Harry agrees, then turns to address the cluster of statues across the way. “He doesn’t even know the word ‘reading,’ and he thinks he’s getting by.”

“Look, you.” Louis set his skewer down on the bench, then twists in his seat so he can drill a finger into Harry’s side. Harry collapses against the arm of the bench, laughing helplessly as Louis tickles and prods at him. “I’m a drama student, alright? I _read_! There’s this man, you might’ve heard of him? He’s called Will Shakespeare, he’s _quite_ famous, I hear.”

“That’s not even _English_ ,” Harry gasps out. He tries to scoot away, but there’s not much room left on the seat. “I mean, it’s not _modern_ English, no one speaks like that anymore, it doesn’t count!”

“I will _have you know_ ,” Louis says, emphasizing each word with another poke between Harry’s ribs, digging his fingers in mercilessly until he’s wheezing, “that without old Billy, we wouldn’t have words like swagger and bedazzle.” Louis finally drops his hands and settles back against the opposite arm, out of breath himself. “We have a lot to thank him for.”

Harry drapes himself over the arm of the bench, as far away from Louis as space will allow, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. “I’m sure Justin Bieber is very grateful.”

He claps a hand over his mouth the moment he finishes the sentence, mortified. Louis erupts into laughter though, reaches a hand out and grabs his leg, fingers digging into muscle.

“You make fun of me,” he says around giggles, “for reading Shakespeare, and then you bring up the Biebs. Mate,” he says with a pat to Harry’s thigh, “you have no room to speak.”

Harry drops his hand and scowls at Louis. “I didn’t mean to, it just slipped out.”

Louis just shakes his head, still smiling so hard the corners of his eyes have folded up into small crinkles that span out across his temples. It’s stupidly adorable, and Harry has to tuck his hands under his thighs to keep from reaching out and brushing his fingers over them.

“It’s too late, Hazza. You’ve inadvertently confessed to being a Belieber. I have just paid witness to the swift, painless death of your indie cred.” He pats Harry’s shoulder consolingly. Harry raises an eyebrow at him, one corner of his mouth hitching up into a smirk.

“You’re the one who knows the term ‘Belieber,’ so can you really judge?”

“Hey,” Louis points at himself. “Four younger sisters. I can assure you that there is not much in the way of pop culture that I do _not_ know, at this point.”

Harry sighs. “Fair enough, I’ll give you that one.”

“Rightly so,” Louis says with a nod. He looks around at the park and Harry glances down at his watch, notes that it’s nearing midnight. He picks the skewer from his kebab up from where he’d dropped it while being poked at, tosses it into the trash bin next to the bench, then pushes to his feet.

“We should get some sleep,” he says as he stretches and scratches at his belly. His shirt rides up as he raises his arms over his head, and he catches the way Louis’ eyes drift down to the sliver of exposed skin as he drops his arms, pinches his lips together to stop them from curling up into a self-satisfied smile.

Louis stands up, pitches his own skewer into the bin, then scrubs his palms against his jeans. “What’ve you got scheduled for us tomorrow, then?”

“Loads,” Harry says. “There’s not quite as much to do here as there was in Barcelona, so I’ve only planned to be here for four more days, but they’re going to be busy ones.”

Louis sighs and tucks his hand into the crook of Harry’s elbow as they start back toward Gran Via. “You’re such a tyrant.”

Harry pats the back of Louis’ hand, then just leaves it there, holding it in place against his arm. “You love it. Without me, you’d still be frying on the beach in Barcelona, bored off your arse.”

Louis shrugs noncommittally, but he presses closer and rubs his cheek against Harry’s bicep. Harry bites his lip around a grin. It’s kind of ridiculous, how fond he already is of this person he’s known less than a week, but they had clicked so perfectly, so quickly, that he can’t really bring himself to mind all that much.

 

~~

 

They spend the next few days exploring Madrid. Everywhere they go, Louis is unabashed with his affection, touching Harry constantly. It starts when he grabs Harry’s hand and laces their fingers together as they walk through the Jardines de Sabatini on Saturday. Harry can’t stop smiling and squeezing their palms together, and after that it becomes par for the course. When they’re not holding hands, Louis has his tucked through the crook of Harry’s elbow, or wrapped around his waist. He’s like one of those stuffed monkeys with the velcro hands, and Harry revels in it, soaks in the warmth of Louis’ skin and the soft drag of his fingers, leans into it when Louis scratches his nails against his scalp while they ride trains, swings their legs back and forth happily when Louis hooks their ankles together the moment they sit down. His family had always teased him, told him he was like a cat that stretches and purrs when touched, but Harry can’t help it. He’s a naturally tactile person, and Louis seems to enjoy it as much as he does.

 

 

On Sunday, they pass a billboard for Real Madrid on their way to catch the Metro, and Louis stops dead on the sidewalk. Harry doesn’t notice until he’s jerked to a stop by their linked hands, and when he sees that Louis is staring up at the sign with a dazed look on his face, he turns around and cranes his neck back so he can look, as well.

“Oh.” He looks back down at Louis. “D’you like Real Madrid, then?”

Louis turns his head and blinks at him. “Do you _not_?”

Harry shrugs. “No, I do. Of course I do. They’re not _my_ team, but they’re great.”

“Great?” Louis’ eyes go wide and he says excitedly, “They have 10 of the top 100 players in the league at the moment. Ronaldo is a legend.” He looks back up at the poster. “He’s rated number two in the world. He scored sixty goals last season alone. He’s _brilliant_.”

Harry smiles down at Louis. “Okay, mister fact sheet. Are you just now realizing that we’re in Madrid, or...?”

Louis shakes his head. “I forgot about football. I can’t believe I forgot. Do you think they’re playing while we’re here? We should check if there’s a game on tonight. I want to be back at the hostel to watch, if there is. Or better yet, let’s find a pub where they’re showing it. I want to be around true Madrid fans.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “What, am I not fan enough for you?”

Louis shakes his head. “Not even close, pal.”

 

 

Harry manages to drag Louis away from the poster so that they can continue on their way to catch a train to Plaza de Cibeles, trying to figure out timing and schedules in his head. He waits until Louis is in the restroom at the palace before pulling out his phone and checking the La Liga website. It reads that Madrid is playing Valencia at 6pm, so, heart thumping with excitement and nerves, Harry buys tickets as quickly as possible, eyes flicking back up toward the door to the bathrooms every few seconds to make sure Louis hasn’t finished yet. E-tickets stored safely in his inbox, he tucks his phone back into his pocket and turns to face a plaque, pretends to be reading it when Louis comes out of the toilets.

“You ready to go?” Louis asks, wiping his damp hands on his pants, and Harry nods, offers Louis a smile that he hopes looks genuine. He can’t wait to surprise Louis with the tickets later; he sucks in a deep breath, holds it to try and slow down his heart rate, worried that Louis will be able to hear it pounding in his chest. Louis doesn’t seem to notice anything weird, though, as he loops their arms together, and, heart rate starting to return to normal, they start their tour of the network of buildings surrounding Cibeles Square.

 

 

They have lunch a couple of blocks from the palace then walk down to the Plaza de la Lealtad to see the obelisk, before heading back up to Plaza de Cibeles. It’s relaxing, sitting in front of the fountain there, so they buy ice cream from a shop along the way and find a bench to park themselves on.

“What’s left on the agenda for today,” Louis asks.

When Harry turns his head, Louis is watching him expectantly as he licks at his cone. Harry tries not to stare at the way Louis flattens his tongue against the ice cream, but it’s a bit distracting. He clears his throat and drops his gaze.

“We have um... an appointment at six, so we should probably leave here in about a half hour.”

Louis frowns. “Appointment?” He raises an eyebrow at Harry. “Are you going to tell me what this appointment is?”

“Yup,” Harry says cheerfully around a bite of ice cream. “And nope!” He grins at Louis, then sticks his tongue out at him, waggles it around so that Louis can see the half-melted ice cream caught on it, then squawks in outrage when Louis grabs his wrist and yanks it over, steals a bit of his ice cream with a broad swipe of his tongue. “Hey, thief! You have your own!”

Harry pulls his arm back, pouting like a child, and Louis shrugs as he swallows. “Yours is different. I wanted to taste it.”

“You could have _asked_ ,” Harry says, incensed.

Louis shrugs again and says, voice smug, “You make appointments without asking me, I take your ice cream without asking you.”

“That is _hardly_ the same thing,” Harry huffs, but Louis just smiles serenely at him, then goes back to his own cone. Harry bides his time, eats his ice cream in silence and watches Louis out of the corner of his eye until he’s distracted, then he reaches out and snatches Louis’ cone right out of his grip and takes an enormous bite.

It’s fucking _freezing_ and his teeth are starting to ache, but it’s worth it for the look of absolute shock on Louis’ face, his hand still curled into a loose fist in mid-air. Once Harry has managed to swallow all of the ice cream in his mouth, he hands Louis back his cone, then smacks a sticky kiss to his cheek and says, “Thanks, babe. Good choice. I might have to get that flavor next time.”

 

 

At five, Harry drags Louis up off the bench. “C’mon, we’ve got to walk to the train.”

Instead of turning left for the line back to their hostel, though, Harry turns right.

“Wait, Haz, that’s the wrong way.”

Harry turns to that he’s walking backwards, facing Louis where he’s stopped on the sidewalk, and shakes his head. “Nope! Come on, Lou, hurry up, we don’t want to be late!”

Louis frowns at him, but he walks over, moves closer when Harry drapes an arm over his shoulders. It takes them twenty minutes to get to the train station, and Louis whines the entire way, pokes at Harry’s sides and belly trying to get him to tell where they’re going, but Harry just smiles down at him and sing-songs, “You’ll seeeeee!”

Harry frowns at all of the people wearing the various Madrid football kits as they get on the train, but Louis somehow stays completely oblivious right up until they step onto the sidewalk at Santiago Bernabeu. The stadium looms in front of them, all white stone and windows, and Louis grabs Harry’s wrist in a vice-like grip and breathes out, long and slow.

“You didn’t,” he whispers. Harry shrugs.

“I might’ve.”

Louis cranes his neck back as they walk up to the stadium, so that Harry has to guide him with a hand in the small of his back to make sure he doesn’t walk into anyone or trip over his own feet.

“Did you want something to drink?” Harry asks, pointing at a concessions booth once they’re inside the stadium, but Louis shakes his head.

“I want a shirt.” He swivels around in search of the official merchandise store.

“Uh, Lou, you know you can get a cheaper one in town.”

Louis shakes his head again and starts dragging Harry down the corridor. “It needs to be from here.”

They end up walking half the stadium before they find the shop. Louis buys an away shirt with Ronaldo’s name on it and immediately pulls it on over his own shirt, smooths his hands down the front of it and grins up at Harry.

“How do I look?”

Harry smiles fondly down at him, reaches a hand out to trace the logo on the chest. “Like a proper footie player.” He drops his hand, then reaches out to link their fingers and tug Louis out of the store. “Now come on, champ, let’s go find our seats.”

 

 

Harry frowns as he shuffles down the row listed on their tickets. Their seats are kind of shit.

"So, our seats are kind of shit," he says as he drops heavily into one of them. The entire row of chairs bounces a little as Louis sits down, his legs jittering excitedly as his eyes scan the stadium.

"No, Haz, this is _great_."

There's a pause while Harry squints sullenly down at the pitch, referees and cameramen nothing more than small, indistinct blobs as they move about setting up for the game, then there's a hand curling around his bicep.

"Harry, honestly." Louis' voice is soft, but just loud enough to be heard over the rumble of 80,000 people there to see their favorite team play. He digs his fingers into Harry's arm to get his attention, so Harry looks over at him. The expression on Louis' face is a mixture of earnestness, fondness, and gratitude. It's....sort of overwhelming. Harry’s chest tightens painfully, so he closes his hands around his own knees and squeezes to ground himself.  

"Really,  Harry, this is awesome. They're perfect." Louis gives a little laugh, then says, "Well, not _perfect_. Front row midfield would be perfect, but this is amazing. I can't believe you did this for me."

Harry drops his gaze to his lap, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. Shit. They've known each other a week and a half, and he's already making grand gestures. He’s trying to come up with a response that makes this sound more like a friend outing and less like a first date when a roar goes up from the crowd and everyone shoots to their feet. When Harry joins them, he sees that the team has walked out onto the pitch. Louis turns to him, wide-eyed with excitement, and Harry grins and drapes an arm over his shoulders, reels him in against his side. Louis turns his head immediately to nuzzle into the side of his neck, and Harry thinks maybe he doesn’t care that this is essentially a date, as long as Louis doesn’t mind either.

 

~~

 

Louis wears his Ronaldo shirt the rest of their time in Madrid, and insists that Harry send him the photo they had taken during the match so that he can keep it forever. They had waited until the stadium had cleared out, then turned their backs to the pitch so that the words “Real Madrid CF” formed on the chairs on the lower level were visible in the background. Louis was smiling so wide his eyes were squinted almost completely shut. Harry sets it as his phone background.

They take some time the next morning to send their families emails, then spend the day shopping on Gran Via for things to send home. After dinner, they go clubbing in Malasaña and stumble back to the hostel at 2am, too exhausted to even shower. They just strip down to their pants and crawl into Harry’s bed together, Louis too drunk to attempt to climb the rickety ladder to the top bunk.

The next morning, they have a bit of a lie-in, Louis spooned up behind Harry in the small bed, before heading out to find lunch on Gran Via and taking the Metro to Buen Retiro Park. The gardens are gorgeous, bright and colorful, and they get ambushed by a family of ducks while standing at the Fountain of the Fallen Angel. The ducklings waddle between and around Harry and Louis’ legs, crawling over their shoes and quacking excitedly, and Harry takes dozens of photos of their fuzzy little bodies and a video of them standing on the toes of Louis’ trainers, staring up at him as they quack indignantly and flap their little wings.

After they tour the museums and the special exhibits, Louis convinces Harry that it is absolutely necessary that they rent a boat on the lake, then refuses to do any of the rowing after he gets a blister ten minutes in. Harry gapes at him.

“Are you serious right now?”

Louis slumps back against the side of the boat, sending it rocking wildly on the water. “Yes. They should really warn people about the dangers of rowing.”

“Oh god,” Harry sighs. This is ridiculous. He drops the oars and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not your... chauffeur. Or whatever it’s called when it’s a boat.”

A sly smile works its way across Louis’ face and he sticks his foot out and nudges Harry’s shin with the toe of his shoe. “You look really good when you’re rowing, though. You’ve got lovely arms, Harold, you should put them to use more often.”

Harry snorts, even as warmth pools in his gut at the compliment. “My name isn’t Harold. That’s not going to work, Louis. Flattery will get you nowhere.” He looks around at the other boaters gliding smoothly across the water around them. “Aside from the middle of the lake.”

“Here,” Louis says, and he straightens up, then leans toward Harry, arms outstretched. “Let me roll your sleeves up, you’re going to get an awkward tan. And this way your wonderful biceps will be on display.”

Harry rolls his eyes at the subject change, but he extends his arms anyway, lets Louis roll up the ends of each sleeve to just below his shoulder. He thinks, belatedly, that they probably should have brought sunscreen, but it’s too late for that now. Louis strokes his hand down Harry’s arm once he’s done and smiles up at him. His eyes are ridiculously blue in the bright afternoon sun, skin golden and warm, and Harry sighs.

“I hate you.”

Louis just beams at him as he leans back, kicks his feet out and settles them on either side of Harry’s, so the sides of their shoes are pressed together. Harry stares down at their feet for a moment, then shakes his head, wraps his hands around the oars, and starts rowing.

 

~~

 

They don’t get in to Paris until just after midnight that night, slightly sunburnt and sore from boating for two hours. Harry groans as he lugs his duffel bag up the stairs of their hostel, whines pathetically when Louis moves to take the bottom bunk. Louis pauses with one knee on the bed, turns to look at Harry, who’s staring at him plaintively, and laughs.

“You’re ridiculous.” Harry just widens his eyes and pushes his bottom lip out. “ _Fine_ , you big baby. But you’re taking the top bunk in Nice _and_ Venice.”

“As long as there’s no rowing,” Harry agrees. He strips off, then crawls into the bed, whimpering when he forgets and puts too much weight on his arms. He’s just settled in and shut his eyes when the mattress dips.

Louis pokes him in the side and whispers, “Shove over.”

“What?” Harry blinks his eyes open and looks up at Louis, confused, but moves back against the wall anyway.

“Here.” Louis hands Harry the trip diary he must have nicked from his bag, leans over him to flip on the reading light built into the wall, then stretches out next to him. “Show me what we’re doing tomorrow.”

Harry tries not to breathe too deeply as Louis fits himself against his side. He smells a bit stale, like sitting on a train for four hours, but underneath that he smells like coconut scented shampoo, and deodorant, and a little bit like the cupcakes they had bought for the train ride as they were leaving Madrid. It’s a heady combination, and it’s making Harry’s head swim.

“Um.” He thumbs through the pages, trying to find his bookmark. “Tomorrow... I had marked down the Musee d’Orsay, Notre Dame, and La Sainte Chapelle. How does that sound?”

Louis shrugs, jostling Harry a bit with the movement. “Sounds fine to me. I mean, I know what Notre Dame is, of course, but I’ve no clue what the other two are.”

“The Musee d’Orsay is an art museum that used to be a train station, and La Sainte Chapelle is a church. It’s supposed to be beautiful. Lots of stained glass.”

“Okay,” Louis says. “When are we going to the Eiffel Tower?”

Harry looks down at the pages he’d marked on while planning the trip back home. “Last day. You know, save the best for last and all that.”

Louis hums and rubs his nose against Harry’s bare shoulder. “Good thinking. Hey, we should go on a cruise on the Seine. You know, one where they serve wine and cheese.”

Harry smiles down at the top of Louis’ head. “Already got it worked into the schedule. They’re mostly BYOB, though. We’ll just have to find our own wine.”

He feels Louis’ mouth curve up into a smile against his arm, then Louis says, “I can’t believe you were going to do all of this on your own. Who wants to go on a booze cruise by themselves?”

Harry shrugs. “I make friends easily.”

“I can see that.”

They’re quiet for a few minutes, Louis’ face nestled against Harry’s shoulder and his hand resting lightly on Harry’s stomach over the blankets. Harry rifles the ends of the pages in his diary nervously at first, but then sleepiness starts to creep up on him. He yawns hugely, jaw nudging the top of Louis’ head.

“Hey, Lou,” he murmurs.

“Yeah?” Louis responds, voice thick and blurry.

“We should go to sleep.”

“Yeah,” Louis whispers. It takes him a minute to gear himself up, then he pats Harry on the stomach and rolls out of the bed. He ducks his head down so he can blink sleepily at Harry before climbing the ladder. “Night, Haz.”

 

~~

 

They spend a week in Paris. It rains most of the time they’re there, but they buy ridiculous ponchos and blow-dry their shoes in the bathroom every night. They go to Notre Dame on Wednesday and spend an hour in La Sainte Chapelle, staring breathlessly up at the stained glass windows. Harry takes so many photos that he has to download everything onto a thumb drive that night at the hostel while he writes an email to his family.

Harry has a belligerent email from his sister in his inbox, sent on their last day in Madrid. She complains that, as lovely as his photography skills are, she’s tired of looking at photos of buildings and plants, insists he take more photos of himself in front of said buildings. So after that, Harry makes a point to get photos of himself and Louis at each place they visit for the emails home. Louis makes a big fuss at first, but Harry says he feels silly in photos by himself, so he goes willingly in the end, arm around Harry’s waist and cheek tipped down over Harry’s shoulder.

On Thursday, they take a day trip to Versailles to visit the Chateau, and on Friday they go to the Jardin du Luxembourg, then the Pantheon and Pere Lachaise Cemetery to see the graves of famous people from French and world history, like Victor Hugo, Marie Curie, and Oscar Wilde.

“Rufino Jose Cuervo,” Louis muses as they wander Pere Lachaise in search of Jim Morrison’s grave, pausing every few seconds to read off the names etched into the headstones. “D’you think that’s who invented tequila?”

Harry snorts. “I think tequila is from Mexico, Lou. France is into brandy.”

“Nonsense,” Louis states firmly. “Everyone loves tequila.”

 

 

They spend all day Saturday in the Latin Quarter, then go to Montmartre on Sunday. The Sacre Coeur is breathtaking. Harry drags out their visit as long as possible, comes out of it with several panoramic shots of Paris from the dome and a handful of photos of himself and Louis. They sit on the lawn outside the Basillica for a little while, pressed together from shoulder to knee, composing emails to their respective families on their phones, and Harry attaches a couple of the photos.

The email Harry gets in response from Gemma while they walk through the Latin Quarter, bags of souvenirs swinging between them, makes him blush and tilt the screen of his phone away from Louis’ prying eyes. He hurriedly types back, ‘ _we’re just friends, fuck off_ ,’ and hits send, then deletes the email so no one will ever be able to find it.

They buy wine before they leave the Latin Quarter, then make their way to the dock for a cruise of the Seine. It’s beautiful out, just chilly enough for a jumper, but the sky is cloudless and the city is alight, light spilling out of open doors and windows and pooling out of street lamps so that the entire city is bathed in a warm yellow glow. The cruise serves dinner and Harry and Louis get slowly sloshed on cheap wine, fingers tangled between them as they giggle into each others’ shoulders over absolutely nothing.

Harry pulls out of Louis’ embrace with a hiccup as the boat bumps gently against the dock at the end of the cruise, eyelids heavy with wine and sleepiness. Louis lifts a hand and tugs on a lock of Harry’s hair, then tucks it behind his ear, fingertips sliding against the soft skin underneath. His eyes are shadowed, black in the halo of light coming from a lamp behind them, and his lips are stained red from the wine. Harry licks his own, mouth suddenly very dry, when Louis traces along the cut of his jaw, dark eyes tracking the movement.

“Pretty Harry,” Louis murmurs, eyes on Harry’s now, breath hot against his chin, and Harry shivers. Louis is radiating warmth all along Harry’s side, but the night air is cold on his flushed cheeks. He swallows, opens his mouth to say... well, he’s not really sure what to say at the moment, but the moment feels heavy, something thick and anticipatory moving sluggishly through his veins, and it’s making him nervous. But before he can come up with anything, the boat captain announces that they’re back, Louis’ eyes flit toward the dock automatically, and the moment is broken.

Louis hesitates a moment before pulling back, and Harry breathes out a long, slow sigh of relief when he does. His belly is fluttering madly with nerves and he feels hot all over, despite the chill in the air. He pushes shakily to his feet while Louis forces the cork back into the wine bottle, then they gather up their bags and start the trek back to their hostel.

The walk back to the hostel is quiet. It’s not awkward, but it’s not exactly comfortable, and when Louis climbs into his bunk immediately upon getting to their room, Harry is grateful that he forwent crawling into Harry’s bed with him for a chat, like he’s done every night since they got to Paris.

  


 

The next morning is miserable.

“Oh my god,” Louis rasps out from the top bunk. It’s dim in the room, weak light filtering in through the curtains, and it’s empty save Harry and Louis, everyone already gone about their days. Harry blinks up at the wooden slats supporting Louis’ body.

“Oh my god,” Louis repeats, a bit louder this time. “I am going to find whoever invented wine and punch them in the head.”

Harry’s lips curl up into a weak smile. There’s a dull throb behind his eyes, but he mostly feels alright, he thinks. Then he moves.

“Oh no,” he groans, and he drops his head down between his knees and breathes in and out through his nose, eyes closed and lips pressed firmly together as he tries to get the room to stop spinning.

It takes them an hour to roll out of bed and into the showers, then stagger downstairs. The front desk sells travel packets of paracetamol, and they buy a handful each, swallow them down immediately before venturing outside. The fresh air helps, though it’s thick and damp with rain. They spend the morning at the Grand Palais, too hungover to take much in despite the beautiful architecture and the massive exhibit of impressionist paintings that, under any other circumstances, Harry would have loved to spend hours exploring. By lunch they’re feeling a bit better, though, and they manage to sit down to an actual meal. By the time they get to the Cite des Sciences et de l’Industrie, a science museum Harry had had to campaign for the day before, they’re actually feeling human again.

Despite Louis’ reservations, the museum is amazing. They sit through a show in the Planetarium, watch an IMAX film about the ocean, then walk through the museum’s exhibits. They spend almost an hour in the light room, playing with the various displays and taking bizarre photos. The sounds exhibit makes Harry’s head hurt a bit, the remnants of his hangover protesting, but Louis has a blast in the music section, so he swallows a couple more paracetamol and sticks it out. The techno gallery is actually a little terrifying, so they round the visit out with another stop at the lights exhibit before heading out and picking up some McDonalds for an early night in.

After they’ve eaten, showered, and dried their shoes, they crawl into Harry’s bed together. Harry opens his trip diary to tomorrow’s schedule, then sets it down on his chest, turns his head on the pillow to look at Louis. The reading light is on, but the back of Harry’s head is blocking it so that most of Louis’ face falls in shadow, dark curlicues stretching across his cheek. Harry tries to flatten out his hair so that he can see the blue of at least one of Louis’ eyes, but his curls just spring back up as soon as he drops his hand, cloaking Louis’ eye in darkness.

“Eiffel Tower tomorrow,” he says by way of conversation starter, and Louis smiles. He’s got his hand on Harry’s stomach again, thumb stroking across the planes of his abs through the blanket.

“Yaaay,” he says quietly. Harry grins. “What else?”

Harry lifts his diary so he can read off the page. “Let’s see... we’ve got the Arc de Triomphe, the rest of the Champs-Elysee, and The Louvre.” He sets the book back down on his chest. “I didn’t know if you’d want to see the tower during the day or at night, so I put it at the end of the schedule. We could do both, though, if you want - start at the tower and end at the tower?”

Louis nods, pillowcase scrunching up underneath his cheek with the movement, then tangles their feet together underneath the blanket. His toes are freezing against Harry’s calf, and Harry sucks in a quiet breath and holds it for a moment, willing his heart rate to remain steady. They lay there in silence for a bit, breaths slowing and eyelids growing heavy as Harry stares resolutely up at the bottom of the bunk, despite being able to feel Louis’ gaze on the side of his face. The air in the bunk is thick and Harry feels warm all over, skin tingling everywhere he and Louis are touching, and when he finally falls asleep, he can still feel Louis’ eyes on him.

 

~~

 

When Harry wakes up the next morning, he’s alone in his bed, but the pillow is still dented and the sheets are still warm. He huffs out a breath and rolls onto his back, stares up at the top bunk while his body wakes up. The door to the room swings open a few minutes later, and when Harry turns his head, he sees Louis bent over, digging through his duffel with damp hair and a towel slung low on his hips. It takes Louis a moment to realize that Harry is awake, and he flushes pink when he catches Harry staring at him.

“Morning,” he murmurs, a shirt and pair of shorts clutched to his damp chest.

“Hey,” Harry croaks. He offers Louis a lopsided grin, an easy out after the weird tension the night before. “You excited for today?”

“Oh.” Louis’ shoulders slump a little, in what Harry thinks might be relief, and then he’s smiling, too. “Yeah, definitely. This is the thing to do, right? Visit the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre? Kind of feels like we’ve not really been in Paris this whole time, not having been yet.”

Harry frowns and shifts onto his side so he can see Louis without having to twist his neck. “Lou, if you wanted to go to the Eiffel Tower first, we could have -”

Louis’ got a hand on Harry’s bare shoulder before he’s even finished the sentence.

“I’m just kidding, Harry. Honestly. This is great. It’s like... going out with a bang. Or something.”

There’s a pause while Harry tries to gauge Louis’ tone, then he’s relaxing into Louis’ touch. “Yeah, okay.”

They pack up their bags and leave them behind the front desk, then venture out in search of breakfast, settling on a cafe a few blocks down for tea and croissants. Harry looks down at his plate as he pulls the croissant apart, fingers slick with butter.

“I wonder what they put in these,” he muses. “I think I’m going to try and bake some croissants when I get home. Try and relive my days as a Parisian.”

When he looks up, Louis is staring at him with his eyebrows raised. “You bake?”

“Yeah,” Harry nods. “Used to work in a bakery during sixth form. It’s nice. Relaxing. Everything smells good when you work in a bakery.”

Louis shakes his head. “You are constantly surprising me, Harry Styles.”

Harry cocks his head, eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he bites off a piece of croissant. “Why?”

“Dunno,” Louis shrugs. “Everything about you is just very... unexpected. With the...” He gestures at Harry with a bit of his own pastry. “The face and hair, the tattoos, the music, the clothes, the photography, the baking... You’re like the world’s strangest, baby-faced, eighty year-old hipster biker.”

“What!” Harry laughs, mildly offended.

“‘S alright,” Louis says, and he reaches across the table to pat the back of Harry’s hand. “It’s a compliment. It works for you.”

“Thanks, I suppose,” Harry grumbles, still not sure whether to be offended or not.

 

 

“You know, we’ve seen the tower from all over Paris, but I didn’t realize quite how... tall it is.”

Harry snorts and looks over at Louis. He’s got his neck craned back so he can squint up at the top of the tower from behind his aviators. They’ve finally gotten a reprieve from the rain, and Louis’ wearing cuffed shorts and a t-shirt that hugs his body, golden skin on display, and Harry wants very badly to just reach out and run his hand down Louis’ arm, just to see if his skin is as soft and warm as it looks.

Instead, he stuffs his hands into his pockets and says, “D’you want to go up now, or when we come back tonight?”

“Mmm... tonight.” He tilts his head to the side so he can look at Harry. “We’ve seen Paris at daytime from the Sacre Coeur, I want to see it all lit up.”

Something swoops in the pit of Harry’s stomach and he steps closer to Louis, says with a coy little smile, “Say Sacre Coeur again.”

“What?” Louis lowers his head. “Why?”

Harry shrugs and nudges their shoulders together, slides one hand out of his pocket so he can poke Louis in the belly. He teases, “You sound sexy when you speak French.”

Louis laughs at that and slaps Harry’s hand away. “You are so weird.”

“Come on,” Harry says suddenly, reaching out to grab Louis’ wrist. “Take a photo with me.”

He looks around for someone who’ll take it for them, flags down a lady that’s crossing the park by herself.

“Sorry,” he says as she walks over, gestures between himself and Louis with his phone clutched in his hand, the other still wrapped around Louis’ wrist. “Do you think you could take a photo of us?”

“Sure,” she answers in accented English. She takes Harry’s phone and motions at them to step back toward the tower.

Harry lets go of Louis’s wrist so he can wrap his arm around his shoulders and reel him in. Louis’ arm goes around his waist automatically, fingers pressed against his side, and Harry feels Louis tilt his head to rest against his shoulder, beams at the camera around the mad fluttering in his belly. A moment later, the woman gives them a thumbs up, then starts toward them to hand Harry back his phone.

“Thank you so much,” Harry says.

“Of course.” The woman smiles at them and nods, then points at each of them in turn and says, “You look very nice together.”

Louis digs his fingers into Harry’s ribs and Harry’s heart stops for a moment, face flushing pink at what the woman is implying. He glances quickly from the woman to Louis and back again and opens his mouth to protest, but Louis gets there first, smiles brightly and says, “Thank you, thank you, merci beaucoup!”

He sneaks a glance at Harry, still smiling, and then the woman is saying goodbye and walking off. Harry stares at the side of Louis’ face, their arms still wrapped around each other. He’s not really sure what to say. In the end, he stutters out, “Ah. That was... why did you?”

Louis shrugs, jostling Harry’s arm with the movement. “I didn’t want to embarrass her. It was easier to just say thank you.”

“Oh,” Harry mutters. He tries not to feel disappointed at Louis’ easy explanation.

“Arc de Triomphe?” Louis asks, and Harry nods. He drops his arm when Louis moves away, stuffs his phone back into his pocket and lets out a little sigh before following Louis to the street.

They spend a half hour at the Arc, take the requisite photos underneath it and on top, then make their way down the Champs-Elysees. They do a bit of shopping as they wander the street, stop for a few minutes at the Luxor Obelisk, then decide to walk to The Louvre.

“God,” Harry breathes. He stops at the edge of one of the fountains so he can just look at the pyramid for a moment. It’s bright out, sun winking off the glass panes, and Harry’s got his phone out of his pocket before he even realizes it. He takes dozens of photos, even makes Louis stay by the fountain while he moves back so that he can pretend to be pinching the top of the pyramid. Louis fumes as he walks back over, looking around at the tourists milling about. They’re not paying him any mind, but his face is flushed with embarrassment nonetheless.

“I can’t believe you made me do that,” he seethes, and Harry grins, cuffs him lightly on the shoulder.

“Just wait, because now you get to take one of me doing it.”

“I hate you,” Louis grumbles, but he takes Harry’s phone anyway.

 

 

Harry decides he doesn’t ever want to leave The Louvre, though Louis gets bored somewhere between Mesopotamia and Pharaonic Egypt. He makes Harry take photos of him with the statues, ignoring the dirty looks other guests are giving him. He makes Harry laugh, anyway, and by the time they get to the paintings, Harry’s got dozens of photos of Louis in bizarre poses. He goes quiet as the enter the paintings exhibit on the first floor.Everything is cold and muted as they move through the exhibit, Louis’ hand tucked through the crook of Harry’s elbow as they weave through other museum-goers.

“You know,” Louis murmurs as they stand in front of _The Raft of Medusa_ , “a lot of this art is very violent and morbid.”

Harry pats Louis’ hand. “Don’t forget sexist and pornographic.”

Louis buries a giggle in Harry’s shoulder, sticks his tongue out at a woman across the room that’s glaring at them like they’ve morally offended her.

“Art snobs,” Louis mutters under his breath as the woman passes. Harry shakes his head fondly at Louis, even though he kind of agrees. Then Louis says a bit louder, gesturing at _Liberty Leading the People_ , “See, no one would ever paint this today.” He shakes his head. “Oh, Harold, how the times have changed.”

They pass a few religious paintings without interest, then come to a stop in front of the _Mona Lisa_. There are loads of people milling about, all clamoring to see the painting, whispering to each other about it and Da Vinci, and Harry even catches a few snatches of conversation that sound suspiciously like discussions of The Da Vinci Code. They study the painting from the back of the crowd, letting the shifting bodies slowly inch them forward, and when they come to a stop in front of it, Louis says quietly, “You know, this is kind of underwhelming.”

Harry gasps and takes a step back from Louis, scandalized. “Lou,” he whispers. “This is the _Mona Lisa_. It’s like the most famous painting in the world, probably.”

Louis squints at it for a moment, then reaches out and drags Harry back over. “Look, I’m not saying I don’t like it, I just think there are nicer paintings out there.” He slants Harry a look. “Anyway, art is subjective, yeah?”

Harry studies Louis for a moment, then sighs. “Yeah, of course it is.” He turns back to look at the painting, then settles a palm over his heart. “Underwhelming. Jesus. I need more cultured friends.”

 

 

After they’ve finished their walk through of the Louvre, they walk back to the Eiffel Tower along the bank of the Seine, with a stop for dinner along the way. They take their time, so that by the time they get back to the tower, the sun has sunk behind the cityscape and the sky has turned a dark, velvety blue. The tower is lit up like a beacon, and when they stop to snap a few photos, Harry pokes Louis in the side and says, “Is this underwhelming too, Lou, or does the Eiffel Tower meet your approval?”

Louis smacks at Harry’s hand. “When are you going to let that go?”

“Never,” Harry says gleefully as he frames the side of Louis’ face in with his phone, the tower unfocused and twinkling in the background, and presses the shutter button. They get someone to take a photo of the two of them again, then get in line for the lifts.

Harry and Louis crowd together against one of the glass walls, Louis pressed all along Harry’s back, his chin hooked over Harry’s shoulder, and watch Paris unfold beneath them, clusters of lights spread across the horizon like a complex constellation of stars. The Seine winds its way across the scene, separating them from the lights of the Trocadero. Once they get to the top, Harry points out the Jardins du Trocadero, tracing the lights lining the reflection pool in mid-air, and the Arc in the distance, then they walk around so they can see the Place de la Concorde, the Luxor Obelisk lit up by spotlights at its base.

Louis disappears while Harry is taking panoramic shots, then comes back with two flutes of champagne in hand. Harry raises an eyebrow as he takes one of the flutes, says dryly, “Are we really doing this, Lou?”

Louis shrugs and takes a sip. “I’ve already paid for them, so yes. We’re being proper tourists on our last night in Paris.” He bats at Harry’s stomach. “Quit complaining. Just because it’s not boxed wine doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it, you hipster freak.”

“Hey,” Harry protests. He drinks a bit of the champagne, just to shut Louis up, looking up at him over the rim of the flute. It fizzes pleasantly in his mouth and spreads little tendrils of heat through his veins. “‘M not a hipster,” he mutters into his champagne, glass fogging up from his breath.

Louis laughs and pats him on the shoulder. “Keep telling yourself that, love.”

Harry scowls at Louis, but it quickly fades when Louis wraps an around around his waist and drags him back over to the ledge so they can look out over Paris while they finish their champagne. He moves behind Harry again, plasters himself to Harry’s back and brackets him in with a hand on the railing. It’s comfortable and intimate and Harry had a hard time breathing at first, has to take a fortifying sip of champagne and suck in some of the cool, humid air to open up his throat.

“We are a cliche,” Harry declares once he’s managed to fill his lungs properly, and Louis rubs his face against the back of Harry’s shoulder and hums in agreement.

“It’s fun, though. Just think how boring it would be if we were just sitting at the train station instead.”

“Speaking of which,” Harry says, turning his wrist so he can see his watch. “We should probably head back. Still need to get our bags from the hostel and get to the train.”

They finish their drinks, then take the lifts back down. The hostel isn’t far from the Eiffel Tower, so they walk, then call a taxi to get to the train station. They arrive at the station with twenty minutes to spare, pick out seats on the train and settle in for the ride to Nice. They’re going to be exhausted when they get to Nice, but his itinerary for the city is deliberately sparse and they’ve got time to relax. Harry falls asleep just a few minutes into the ride, his forehead pressed to the window and Louis’ pillowed on his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> F L U F F. Sorry not sorry, this entire thing is just one big sap-fest because that's how I roll. As per usual, if you have questions/comments/advice/whatever, feel free to hit me up here or on [tumblr](http://supernope.tumblr.com/)! And thanks for reading, it means a lot to me!
> 
> Also, sorry for the weird spacing, nothing translates well to ao3. /o\


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _you come beating like moth’s wings_  
>  spastic and violently  
> whipping me into a storm  
> shaking me down to the core

Nice is stunning. The city is boxed in by the Alps and small enough that there’s a cool ocean breeze nearly everywhere they go. They don’t get in until just after six in the morning, so they sacrifice the rest of it to a nap, then find lunch on their way to the Promenade des Anglais.

As they walk up to the promenade, Louis pulls a snapback out of his bag and tucks it down over his hair. It’s not hot, but the sun is bright, reflecting off the blue water so that it literally sparkles. Harry frowns as he watches Louis tug on the bill of the cap to adjust it.

“Didn’t think to bring a hat with me.”

Louis shrugs, then gestures to the kiosks set up along the boardwalk. “Let’s get you one, then.”

They browse the row of kiosks looking for hats that are not floppy-brimmed or made of floral fabric, like bonnets or carpet bags. Harry is in the middle of checking out a rack of snapbacks with various France-related logos embroidered on when Louis pops up behind him and shoves something down on his head.

“Hey, what -” Harry yanks it off to see what it is, stares blankly down at the white fedora for a moment before looking up at Louis. “What is this?”

Louis grins at him, hands clasped together in front of his chest. “I bought it for you. You know.” He gestures at Harry’s rolled up jean shorts and the ratty plaid button down he’s got half-tucked in, the top half of the buttons left open so it gapes over his chest. “To complete your hipster image.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I’m not a hipster.”

Louis reaches out and pats him on the hip. “Whatever you say, Curly.” When Harry tries to hand him back the hat, Louis dances away, hands held up. “I already paid for it, it’s yours.”

Harry looks down at the hat in dazed confusion. It’s pretty ugly - not really something he’d ever have bought for himself. Louis is snickering at him from a couple of feet away, like he bought it just to make fun of Harry, and. Well, then, Harry thinks. Challenge accepted. Harry sets the hat firmly on his head and looks up at Louis, cocks a hip and says, “Well? How does it look?”

Louis skips back over, reaches out and straightens the brim. “Very fetching. Now just put those wayfarers back on and you’ll have completed the image.”

Harry tugs the sunglasses out of his pocket and shakes them open, then slides them on. “Good?”

“Parfait,” Louis declares with an exaggerated French accent, then he turns and offers Harry his elbow. “Now come on, Hazza, let’s go work on our tans.”

The beach is crowded, but they manage to find a spot to spread their towels out close to the surf. Harry tries valiantly not to watch as Louis strips off his t-shirt and stretches out on his towel, chin tipped up toward the sky as he stretches his arms over his head and digs his toes into the sand. He’s all honey-toned skin dusted in fine blond hair, thickly muscled limbs and a soft belly, and want curls helplessly in Harry’s gut. He manages to avert his gaze just as Louis relaxes back onto the towel and turns his head to squint over Harry.

Harry uses their surroundings as a distraction as he unbuttons his shirt, then his shorts, tugs them off and folds them carefully into his bag. There’s a family next to them with a dozing toddler, a man with two large dogs jogging through the surf a couple of meters away, and a small cluster of children building sandcastles immediately to their right. The noise of hundreds of beach-goers is just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the waves crashing over themselves and lapping at the sand, but it’s nice - barking dogs and laughing children and the murmur of dozens of conversations coalescing into one pleasant undulating sound that lulls Harry into a comfortable doze as he lies face-down on his towel.

 

The sun is a bit lower in the sky when Harry wakes up to hands on his shoulders. It takes him a moment to orient himself, but the beach sounds slowly filter into his consciousness, along with awareness of the sweaty, salt-water tackiness of his skin, and the fact that he can’t move his feet. He shifts up onto his elbows and blinks his eyes open to find Louis kneeling at his side, palms full of suntan lotion.

“Hey, Haz.”

“Lou,” Harry mumbles in response, mouth uncomfortably dry. Louis’ skin already looks a shade darker, and he’s taken his snapback off so his hair is wind-tousled, fringe lying limp across his forehead. He looks down at Louis’ hands, then up at him questioningly.

“You’re starting to burn,” Louis explains as he waves his cupped hands toward Harry’s face.

Harry frowns and cranes his neck, trying to get a look down his back. He freezes, body twisted uncomfortably on the towel. “Hey, Lou? Why are my feet buried in the sand?”

“Oh,” Louis giggles. “Some kids wanted to bury you while you slept. I told them they could do your feet, but that was it.”

“Thanks,” Harry says dryly as he wiggles his toes experimentally. At least it’s cool underneath the sand. He flops back down onto the towel with a sigh and rolls his shoulders. “Go on, then, do me.”

Louis snorts, but he crawls closer, slaps his hands palm-down over Harry’s shoulder blades. Harry hums appreciatively as Louis rubs the lotion into his skin, his fingers and palms pleasantly callused. It feels a bit like a massage, hands smoothing up over his shoulders and down his sides in broad strokes. He can’t help the faint noise of surprise he makes when the tips of Louis’ fingers dip beneath the waistband of his swimming trunks, and he whips his head around, eyes wide.

“It’s just so you don’t burn if your trunks shift,” Louis explains quickly, cheeks a bit red where they weren’t before.

Harry settles back down, face tucked into the crook of his elbow, and tries not to think about Louis’ hands on the beginning curve of his bum. He’s pulled them away, is spreading lotion over the back curve of Harry’s hips when his hands stop moving. Harry waits to see if he’s going to keep going, and when he doesn’t, he lifts his head again, twists it around to see what’s stopped him.

To Harry’s utter confusion, Louis is staring straight ahead over Harry’s back, pulling bizarre faces. For a moment, Harry’s worried he might be having a seizure, but then he hears a giggle from his other side, and when he turns to look, the baby he’d noticed before is watching Louis with wide eyes and an even wider grin, clapping chubby hands together as she laughs delightedly.

The baby is adorable, dressed in a tiny rashguard so that she doesn’t burn, despite the umbrella angled over her head. She’s got a halo of bright blond curls and luminous green eyes and only a handful of teeth, but Harry finds himself turning back around, careful not to jostle Louis’ hands and distract him, so that he can watch Louis instead. He’s pulling a face every few seconds, holding it until the little girl lets out another peal of laughter, then he’s twisting his mouth and scrunching up his nose and rolling his eyes in a different direction until she laughs again.

It’s amusing to watch. Louis has remarkable control over his facial muscles, and Harry has to pull his lips into his mouth to prevent himself from laughing along with the baby at some of the goofier faces. Louis’ still got his hands resting, firm and sticky with drying lotion, on Harry’s sides, and Harry feels his heart flutter with affection for this ridiculous boy.

Eventually, Louis stops making faces and blows the girl a kiss before tilting his head to rub his cheek against his shoulder. He wiggles his nose, then drops his gaze, and Harry laughs. He looks surprised when he realizes that he’s supposed to be putting lotion on Harry’s back, and when he lifts his eyes to meet Harry’s, he smiles sheepishly.

“Sorry, I got distracted.”

Harry shakes his head and smiles warmly up at Louis, voice soft and fond as he murmurs, “No worries.”

 

~~

 

As they’re getting dressed the following morning, Harry tugs his plaid buttondown out of his bag and something goes tumbling out. He crouches down to pull it out from under the bed and snorts.

“You know you don’t really have to wear that,” Louis says from over by his own bag. Harry looks up.

“Oh, no. This was a _gift_ ,” he says with mock-seriousness. “I am going to wear it every day for the rest of the trip, Lou. Just to show you how much I appreciate it.”

To prove himself, he sets the fedora down on the bed and moves to get dressed. Once he’s satisfied with his shirt and trousers, he turns to look at Louis, eyebrows raised in challenge, and he sets the hat down on top of his head with unnecessary flourish.

“Good?” He asks. Louis rolls his eyes.

“You look ridiculous.”

Harry shrugs and smiles. “Just remember, when we’re walking around and you’re embarrassed to be seen with me, that you did this.”

True to his word, Harry wears the fedora as they head downstairs to the lobby of the hostel, and out onto the street. They walk through the Old City and have lunch at a small restaurant along one of the side streets, then climb the stairs up to Castle Hill. It takes them ages and Harry’s legs ache by the time they reach the top, but the views are worth it, and Harry drapes himself over the railing at the waterfall, hands stretched out over it in an attempt to feel a bit of the spray. It’s too far off to feel more than a faint mist, but the rush of noise is calming, and Harry lets his eyes flutter shut in contentment when Louis tucks himself into his side, an arm wrapped around his waist and his cheek pressed to Harry’s shoulder.

After Castle Hill, they spend a couple of hours on the beach again. Harry sits in the surf and lets Louis dribble wet sand over his feet and legs as he digs trenches around himself with his fingers. When Louis flicks a mischievous glance up at him through his eyelashes, then lifts his hands and dumps a fist-full of sand over Harry’s hair, Harry growls and wrestles Louis to the ground. He presses Louis’ head back into the soft sand as the water rushes up around them, muffling Louis’ laughter and gasps of surrender. When Harry collapses onto the sand half on top of Louis, he realizes that Louis’ legs are wrapped around his own, and he buries his face in Louis’ shoulder, too flustered and worn out from the long day to bother looking around to see if people are watching them.

They lie there in the wet sand, panting and letting out sporadic giggles, until the sun starts to sink behind the roofs of the buildings and the air turns chilly, raising goosebumps along their torsos as the waves wash over them and leave behind damp skin.

 

They’re itchy from salt dried on their skin by the time they get back to the hostel, and Harry drops his bag on the carpet and wings the fedora onto his bed like a frisbee, then makes straight for the bathrooms, excited at the prospect of rinsing off and putting on dry clothes.

“Shower,” he says reverently, but is stopped dead halfway across the room by the sight of Louis slipping into one of the stalls and tugging his shorts off without even bothering to pull the curtain shut. He drops his gaze hurriedly before Louis can turn around and catch him looking at his bum, stumbles into his own stall and yanks the curtain closed. He starts a mental chant of _don’t think about it don’t think about it_ as he turns the water on cool and washes the salt off his body and the sand out of his hair, scrubs until his skin is tingling and his entire body is flushed pink. He’s a bit desperate for a wank, but Louis is only two stalls over and he thinks that’s probably crossing a line.

Harry doesn’t wait for Louis, just wraps himself up in a towel and trudges back to the room, pulls on a pair of pants, and crawls into bed facing the wall so he won’t be able to see Louis when he walks in, mostly naked and dripping wet.

He’s still trying, rather futilely, not to think about what he saw when the bed dips and Louis slips underneath the covers. Harry freezes, hands white-knuckled around the blankets as Louis scoots in behind him.

“Hey, Haz,” he murmurs into the space between Harry’s shoulder and neck. Harry shivers. “Hey, you’re really warm.”

He feels Louis press his mouth to his shoulder, squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his jaw so tight that his ears buzz and he nearly misses the way Louis tugs the blanket back and says, “Oh, you’re burnt.” Louis pats his side. “Hey, roll over, I’ve got aloe vera.”

“I’m okay,” Harry croaks out, but Louis shakes his head, fringe brushing the top of Harry’s shoulder. Now that he’s thinking about it, his skin feels tight and he can feel the heat pouring off of himself and gathering under the blankets until he’s sweltering, but he’s not sure he wants Louis touching him right now. Louis insists, though, wraps a hand around his hip over the blankets and pushes gently until Harry sighs and rolls onto his stomach.

Louis tugs the blankets down around his hips and says, “It’s too tight in here, I can’t reach. I’m going to sit on you, okay?”

Harry hesitates for a moment, tries to think of a way to say no without offending Louis while he roots through his bag for the bottle of aloe. He can’t come up with one, though, so he just nods and holds his breath while Louis tosses a leg over his thighs and shifts into place, straddling him with his weight resting just above the backs of Harry’s knees.

The gel is freezing against his heated skin, and Harry hisses, quietly grateful for the distraction from the way Louis’ hips are rocking back and forth on his thighs as he reaches up to Harry’s shoulders, then rubs his hands down toward the small of Harry’s back. The rhythmic stroking of Louis’ hands is soothing, despite the weight of his body on the backs of Harry’s thighs and the scent of his shampoo filling the small space inside the bunk, and Harry falls asleep with Louis’ hands cupped around his shoulder blades and his knees clamped around his hips.

  


They sleep in the next morning, wake up wrapped around each other in Harry’s bed. The sheets are stiff, stuck painfully to Harry’s back with dried aloe, and he can’t help the pathetic whimper when he tries to roll onto his side away from Louis, sheets pulling at his sensitive skin. Louis wakes up at that, rubs his face against Harry’s shoulder and says, voice groggy, “Harry? What’s wrong?”

Harry blinks up at the bottom of the bunk above them, lips pressed together as he tries to will away the stinging pain, and says, “Sheets are stuck to me.”

He can feel Louis’ frown against his bicep. “Shit. Should have waited for it to dry before I moved you. Here, let me -”

He pushes up onto his knees in the small space and tries to lift Harry slowly, one hand wrapped around Harry’s shoulder and the other keeping the sheets flat against the bed. Harry’s back is on fire by the time he’s managed to sit up, and he whimpers again. Louis clucks his tongue.

“Let’s put some more aloe vera on, then let it dry before you get dressed.”

He grabs the bottle, then crawls behind Harry on the bed, sprawls his legs out so they’re framing Harry’s hips and rubs the cool gel into his skin. Harry sighs in relief, and Louis says, “It’s not that bad, really. I think it just hurts because of the sheets, you should feel better pretty quickly.”

Harry feels him poke a finger into the meat of his back. It doesn’t hurt as much as he’d thought it would and, an hour later, when he tugs a shirt on, he’s pleased to note that the only place it hurts is on the tops of his shoulders, where the skin folds when he lifts his arms.

  


They visit the Russian Church that morning, then go back to the Old City for lunch and a bit of shopping, decide to drop their things off at the hostel and send a few emails before heading to the Nice Port for dinner. Louis tries to convince Harry not to wear the fedora. Harry hadn’t intended on it, but he lets Louis think he was going to, puts on a show of being offended when Louis insists he leave it, so that Louis fawns all over him as they head toward the Port, twines their fingers together and presses close on the sidewalk so there’s hardly any space between them as they walk. They find a pub with live music spilling out the front doors and have dinner there, then walk down a little ways in search of a nightclub.

It’s dark and crowded in the club, music pulsing through Harry’s veins as he and Louis make their way over to the bar. Harry tries to order a beer, but Louis shakes his head emphatically and yells out, “Shots!”

Harry tries to protest, but Louis won’t hear it, signals the bartender and orders two rounds of tequila shots and makes Harry down two of them before dragging him off to the dancefloor. The floor is just a mass of shifting bodies, and Harry lets Louis pull him through the mess of dancers until he’s found a spot he’s happy with, looks up at the ceiling so he doesn’t have to look Louis in the eye when he puts his arms around his shoulders and presses close. He closes his own hands around Louis’ hips and lets the crowd move him.

There’s not much room, and he and Louis are pressed together from chest to foot in the tight space. Harry focuses on the exposed pipes hanging from the ceiling and the girl whose back is rubbing up against him as she dances so he won’t think about Louis’ hot breath against his collarbone and Louis’ thigh pressed snug between his own.

It’s a long night, and one Harry wishes he had been much drunker for, but Louis hadn’t let go of him all night, so there had been no opportunity for him to fight his way back to the bar. By the time they leave, he’s so keyed up that when Louis tries to loop their arms together, he takes half a step to the side and shoves his hands into his pockets, elbows locked to keep his arms close to his body. Louis shoots him a hurt look and they walk back to the hostel in silence. In their room, Louis shucks his clothes and climbs into the top bunk without a word.

Harry lies in bed staring at the ceiling of the bunk for ages, unable to fall asleep. He can hear Louis shifting restlessly on the mattress above him, and finally, after he’s been lying awake for over an hour, he huffs out a breath and crawls out of his bunk, feels blindly about in the dark for the ladder. He can hear Louis turn over in bed as he fumbles his way over the ledge of the top bunk, hears Louis hiss out, “What are you doing?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Harry whispers, and Louis sighs, but he shifts back against the wall and holds the blankets up so that Harry can slide underneath them. Despite being unable to see anything, they lie there facing each other in the dark, knees locked together between them, as the rest of the people in the room sleep around them. Harry reaches a hand out slowly, feels for Louis’ shoulder, then slides it up until he’s cupping the side of Louis’ neck, thumb brushing his jaw.

“Sorry about tonight,” Harry murmurs, and he feels Louis’ shoulder move as he shrugs.

“Why?” He asks, meaning ambiguous and tone deliberately blank.

Harry presses his thumb into the hollow under the point of Louis’ chin. He lies, “I just needed some space after the crowd in the club. Didn’t mean to offend you.”

He feels Louis draw in air and hold it in his lungs for a moment, then release it slowly in a rush of tequila-scented breath. Then Louis’ hand is curling around his wrist, thumb stroking over the base of his palm briefly, and Louis is shifting forward to brush a kiss over Harry’s forehead.

His heart leaps into his throat and his eyes flutter shut, hand still curved around Louis’ neck. When Louis settles back against the pillow, he whispers, “Go to sleep, Harry.”

Harry nods, cheek brushing the pillowcase, and lets himself relax into the mattress and the heat of Louis’ body next to him, falls asleep to Louis’ hand braceleted around his wrist and Louis’ pulse fluttering against his palm.

 

~~

 

They leave for Venice early the next morning, while the sun is still kissing the horizon and the sky is painted a soft pink, cirrus clouds like wisps of smoke drifting slowly through the chilly morning air. They spend just under nine hours on the train, playing silly games on Harry’s phone and going through his travel guide to make sure they’re doing all they want to do in Venice. Outside of churches, there’s not much that draws their attention, though, and they stick with Harry’s original plan to only spend four days there.

It’s early evening when they get into Venice, and they stumble off the train, legs stiff and backs sore from sitting for so long. There’s a queue for the Vaporetto waterbus, but their hostel is all the way on the other side of town, and it’s the easiest way to get there.

Harry crams the fedora onto his head while they wait, sends a sidelong smirk at Louis when he makes a huffing noise. He turns to face Louis and flicks a finger along the brim.

“Getting tired of the fedora, are we?”

Louis cocks his head and studies Harry for a moment. He’s wearing an oversized t-shirt that hangs loose over his collarbones, the wings of the sparrows peeking out the top. His jeans are tight, tucked over an old pair of boots, and he’s got on sunglasses, despite the angle of the sun in the sky, the fedora perched firmly on his head. Louis reaches up and filters his fingers through the hair behind Harry’s ears, curling up over the brim of the hat like little wings. Their faces are only a few inches apart, and Louis is radiating warmth into the small space between them.

His eyes flick to Harry’s over the tops of his aviators, warm and bright and so, unbelievably blue, and Harry sucks in a breath, then wishes he hadn’t. Louis smells like traveling for nine hours and like his clothes need a good wash, but under that, he smells like coconut and fresh-scented deodorant, something Harry has come to associate with Louis. Also, a bit like the ham sandwiches they had had for lunch. All in all, it’s not an unpleasant combination, is so very _Louis_ that it has desire curling low in Harry’s gut.

“Nah,” Louis says, tone and expression fond. He tugs on one of the curls. “It’s growing on me.”

By the time they manage to get onto the Vaporetto, it’s completely packed. They don’t bother trying to get good spots, since they plan on touring the Grand Canal anyway, so they relax against the wall and let people shuffle in front of them.

They get off at Giglio and Louis presses a laugh into Harry’s shoulder. Harry rolls his eyes and pats Louis’ hand. “Very mature, Louis.”

“I like Italy,” Louis decides. “Italian is much more entertaining than English, anyway. And what Englishman would build a city like this?”

He turns in circles, trying to take in the canal and the buildings all at once, and Harry watches him spin slowly, chest tight and breath short with the way the evening sun is painting his hair gold and streaking across the lenses of his sunglasses, the way he’s got his arms held a few inches away from his body and his hands cupped to catch the wind as he turns, sharp bones of his ankles straining against his skin as he pivots on his toes. He’s beautiful, and Harry wants so badly to just reach out and drag him in, thinks maybe Louis wouldn’t mind if he did, but they’ve only known each other for three short weeks, and he’s still not sure where the lines have been drawn.

Harry is grateful for his sunglasses when Louis stumbles to a halt, smiling wide and happy, because he’s sure that everything he’s feeling must be written on his face, in his eyes, and he’s just not ready for Louis to see that yet. So he clears his throat and takes a step forward, his own helpless smile dimpling his cheeks.

“Come on, Giglio, let’s go find our hostel.”

It’s not far from the waterbus stop, overlooking Rio del Santissimo, a smaller canal branching off of the Grand Canal. They drop their bags off, then go off in search of dinner. They don’t go far, exhausted from a long day of traveling and not daring to turn any corners lest they get lost at this time of day, but Harry is excited for his first taste of authentic Italian food.

“I think,” he says as he peruses the menu, “that I will need to try some wine.”

Louis hums his agreement, and by the end of dinner, their cheeks are flushed with it, heads swimming pleasantly as they trudge back to the hostel. There are no bunk beds in this one, and Harry is grateful for it, doesn’t have to worry about flinging a hand out in the middle of the night and hitting a pole. He’s asleep the moment his head hits the pillow.

 

~~

 

They hadn’t bothered setting an alarm for the morning, as they’re only a ten minute walk from the Piazza San Marco, their hub of activity for the day. The sun is streaming through the windows when Harry does wake up, mouth wine-fuzzy and eyelids heavy. When he turns his head, he sees Louis still asleep, one arm hanging off the side of his bed and his face mashed into the mattress, bright pink duvet slung low over his hips. His back is bare, all smooth, tanned skin, and Harry sighs as he eyes the dip at the small of his back. The sunlight is catching the soft, blond fuzz that covers his body so that he looks like he’s glowing.

He feels monumentally creepy, lying there with his head pillowed on his hands as he studies Louis while he sleeps, but he loses track of time doing it, doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, really, until Louis starts to stir and he has to look away so he doesn’t get caught staring.

Louis mumbles something incoherent into the sheets, then makes a bizarre snuffling noise and rasps out, “Haz?” Harry hums in response. “Time ‘sit?”

Harry flips his wrist so he can read the face of his watch. “Just after ten.”

“We should get up, yeah?”

“Probably.”

Harry sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. There are only two other beds in the room, but they’re empty, sheets mussed and bags perched on the ends. He crouches down to dig through his duffel, doesn’t look up when he hears Louis’ feet hit the floor. He hears Louis start to rummage through his own bag, then huff out a breath.

“Hey, Haz. How do you feel about finding a laundromat in Rome?”

Harry scratches his belly as he straightens up, jeans and a shirt clutched in one hand. “I could probably get behind the idea. You running out of clothes?”

Louis nods. “I’ve got just enough pants to get me through Venice and one day in Rome, then I’m fucked.”

“I’ll put it on the schedule,” Harry says with a smile as he sits down to pull his trousers on.

The hostel is only ten short minutes from Piazza San Marco, but it takes them nearly three times that to get there. They stop along the way for some tea and biscuits, and then every few steps so Harry can take photos. The city fascinates Harry - the way the buildings are sandwiched together, built of painted stucco and terra cotta tiled roofs, some with bright white shutters and wrought iron terraces, laundry hanging out to dry and plants spilling over the rails. They pass one flat with a bicycle hanging off the edge of a terrace, held up by a chain wrapped around the handlebars, and another with two small dogs with their heads sticking out between the rails, yapping at passers-by.

Piazza San Marco is crowded with tourists, and Harry watches a flock of pigeons advance on a small girl holding a bag of crisps while Louis finishes off his tea. He nudges Louis with his elbow, says, “D’you reckon those pigeons will attack?”

He’s taken half a step toward the girl to scare the birds off when the girl’s father notices and stamps a foot at them. The pigeons scatter, but don’t go far, and the little girl laughs delightedly as some of them flutter off with squawks of outrage.

“Right,” Louis says, once he’s tossed his empty cup into a trash bin. “Where should we start?”

Harry shrugs. “We can just start left and work our way round?”

The Basilica is dark and beautiful, covered in mosaic tiles depicting religious scenes and figures. They wander through quietly, pinkies linked between them and the heels of Harry’s boots echoing softly on the tiled floors.

After the Basilica, they move on to Palazzo Ducale and then the Bridge of Sighs, then break for some lunch at the Piazzetta. They walk over to Riva degli Schiavoni, a promenade parallel to the Bridge of Sighs, and ask a girl with an enormous camera to take a photo of them on Harry’s phone with the bridge behind them, then get in line for the Campanile lifts.

The line is long and moves slowly, but they amuse themselves by watching the tourists’ reactions to all of the pigeons, hands clasped together and swinging gently between them.

“Hey,” Louis nudges Harry’s side. “That boy is afraid of birds. Watch.”

They watch a little boy walking across the Piazzetta with his family, eyeing the pigeons distrustfully as he eats a sandwich. As the birds inch nearer, he presses closer to his mum, and when they get just a bit too close, he yells and runs in a circle around his family, the birds chasing him on their short little legs, and Harry and Louis dissolve into laughter.

It’s late afternoon by the time they get up to the top of the Campanile, sun hanging low in the sky as they look out over Venice. Harry wraps an arm around Louis’ shoulders and drags him up against his side, presses his cheek to the top of Louis’ head. One side of the city is a mess of red tile roofs that stretch across their field of view, buildings tall enough to obscure all of the smaller canals that wind between them, and on the other, they get a view of open water dotted with small islands and a fleet of gondolas lined up along the Piazzetta, waiting to transport passengers back down the Grand Canal.

By the time they finish with the Campanile, it’s late enough to head back to the hostel, with a stop for dinner along they way.

“So,” Louis hums around a mouthful of risotto. “Tomorrow is the big day, eh?”

“What d’you mean?” Harry swings a leg out, hooks his foot around Louis’ ankle and drags him closer.

“Gondolas. Grand Canal. The _real_ Venice.”

Harry squints at Louis across the table. “Is this like your thing with the Eiffel Tower? We’re not really in Venice until we’ve been on a gondola?”

Louis shrugs, the corners of his lips curved up into a small smile. “Maybe.”

 

Louis knocks their hips together every once in a while as they walk back to the hostel, and Harry has to turn his face away to hide his smile every time. He feels like a soppy idiot, but he can’t really help it, when Louis does things like tuck one of his fingers through the belt loop of Harry’s jeans, or tug Harry’s phone out of his back pocket as they cross over a bridge and snap a quick selfie of the two of them with the canal stretching out behind them, lights on the sides of the flanking buildings like little yellow starbursts behind their heads.

They climb the stairs to their room slowly, fingers trailing against the pitted plaster as they go. Harry tosses the fedora onto his bed, then stretches languidly, pats a hand over his full belly and says on a gust of breath, “Shower?”

They strip down, then pad to the bathroom with towels around their waists, giggling at some of the sillier decor on the walls as they go. Harry pushes the bathroom door open, then stops dead, so that Louis walks right into him.

“What? Haz, why are you -” He stretches up onto his toes so he can see over Harry’s shoulder, then says, “Oh.”

There’s only one shower stall, outfitted in clear glass, and Harry’s not entirely sure how he missed that when brushing his teeth that morning. Forgetting that Louis is still behind him, he backs up a step and trods on Louis’ foot.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbles as he turns sideways and presses himself back against the door jamb. “You can go ahead, I’ll wait. I’ll just shave in the shower when you’re done.”

Louis gives him a funny look, then says, “You can shave in here while I’m showering, Harry, I don’t mind.” He eases past Harry into the bathroom and sets his toiletry bag on the back of the toilet, then turns to smirk at Harry over his shoulder. “I’m not shy.”

He doesn’t wait for Harry’s response, just steps into the shower stall and whips his towel off. Harry’s mouth goes dry and he just about swallows his tongue, manages to wrench his eyes away as he shuts the bathroom door carefully behind himself and throws the lock, then takes a few steps over to the sink.

He throws all of his concentration into spreading shaving cream over his cheeks and down his neck, spends an inordinate amount of time making sure it’s all even and every millimeter of skin is covered before picking up his razor. He’s not got much facial hair, doesn’t have to shave often, but when he goes too long without, he starts to grow a silly looking mustache. He shaves slowly and carefully, eyes locked determinedly on his face and definitely not on the reflection of Louis in the foggy mirror.

By the time he’s dragged the razor over the last bit of the underside of his jaw and made sure his sideburns are even, Louis is shutting off the shower.

“You take shaving very seriously, you know that?”

Harry starts at the unexpected sound of Louis’ voice, echoing off the tiles and glass. His eyes flick, unwarranted, to Louis in the mirror, and his cheeks heat up immediately. Louis is half-turned toward the wall, away from Harry, offering him an unfettered view of the smooth slope of his back and the curve of his bum. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, not after Nice, but there’s water beaded on his skin and he’s flushed rosy pink from his shower, eyes amused as he studies Harry over his shoulder, and Harry drops his gaze hurriedly to the sink and forgets to answer over the rush of embarrassment and arousal in his ears.

He hears the shower door snick open, then Louis smacks his bum and says, “She’s all yours.”

Harry mumbles thanks and grabs his shampoo and body wash, slides away from the counter and steps into the shower hurriedly. He doesn’t bother looking to see if Louis is still in the room, just hangs his towel over the door and turns the water on hot. He jumps when Louis’ voice trails out of the fog.

“You know, I’m not trying to be funny, and you’d never be able to tell through your weird hipster clothes, but you’ve got a nice little bum on you, Styles.”

Harry feels blood rush to his cheeks and resists the urge to cover himself. It’s not that he’s shy, quite the opposite. He loves being naked, doesn’t really care who’s around. But he’s been half hard for what feels like ages now, and having Louis mostly naked just a few steps away, shamelessly ogling his ass, isn’t helping.

To cover his belated response, he goes for coy, aims a smirk over his shoulder and says, “Enjoying the view, are we?”

Louis shrugs. “Just a friendly observation.” He gathers up his things, holds them against his chest as he pulls the bathroom door open. Before letting it swing shut, though, he pokes his head back around the corner and says, “But yes, if you were wondering, I was.”

And with a wink, he’s gone.

Harry waits a few moments, just to make sure Louis couldn’t possibly hear him, then drops his forehead against the tiles and groans. He’s pretty sure he’s never been this sexually frustrated in his life, and that includes puberty.

Feeling mildly disgusted with himself but sure he won’t get another opportunity for a while, he drops a hand and wraps it around himself, wanks himself off with sharp, firm jerks of his wrist and sinks his teeth into the meat of his arm where it’s braced against the wall when he comes.

When he gets back to the room, feeling slightly more relaxed and loose-limbed, Louis is stretched out on his own bed in just pants and a pair of -

“You wear glasses?” Harry asks, voice higher than normal with shock and an unexpected bolt of lust.

Louis looks over the tops of them at Harry, finger holding his place in Harry’s guide book. “Yep. Normally wear contacts, but my eyes were hurting after the shower. I think I might have gotten some soap in them or something.”

As if to prove his point, he shoves the glasses up his forehead so he can press his fingers against his eye, lips pursed as he rubs at it. He looks a bit like a grumpy child, and Harry is torn between wanting to cuddle him and fuck him into the mattress, glasses on.

He settles for sitting down on his bed and pulling a pair of pants out of his bag, shimmying them up his legs underneath the towel, then dropping the towel onto the floor and flopping back, spread-eagled, onto his mattress.  He takes a moment to steel himself, then rolls onto his side facing Louis.

“What are you reading about?”

Louis shrugs, then looks over at Harry, and Harry wonders if there’s a way to request that Louis wear his glasses more often without sounding creepy.

“Just reading about the Grand Canal,” Louis says.

“I thought maybe we could just walk around a bit beforehand. Maybe if we venture out of main tourist areas, we’ll be able to find some nice things to buy that aren’t priced like what we saw today.”

Louis smiles and nods. “Sounds good, yeah. You have a map of the city?”

“We can use my phone, it’s got GPS. If we cross over the bridge over Grand Canal, there’s the Guggenheim Collection and the Salute, which is the basilica we saw from the Campanile today. If you wanted.”

Louis wrinkles his nose. “I dunno about another church, but we can go to the Guggenheim. Sounds fancy, anyway.”

Harry laughs. “Yeah, they’ve got some Picassos and like, works by Kandinsky and Jackson Pollock.”

“Okay,” Louis says simply, then he closes the book and sets it on top of his bag on the floor before getting up to turn off the bedroom lights. It’s nearing midnight, but the other guests aren’t back yet.

Before he knows what he’s doing, Harry says, “Hey, d’you think maybe, if you did get soap in your eyes, you should just wear your glasses tomorrow?”

He can see Louis’ face in the moonlight streaming in through the window. He looks amused and unbearably fond, and when he speaks, his tone is smug and knowing. “If you think it’s best, sure.”

He opens his mouth to protest, to defend himself somehow against Louis’ (accurate) suspicions, but figures he’ll probably do more damage than good. So instead, he just crawls beneath the blankets and tugs them up to his chin and whispers, “Goodnight, Lou.”

There’s a moment where the only noises in the room are the rustling of blankets, and then Louis murmurs back, “Night, love.”

 

~~

 

“Are you sure this is the right way?”

Harry frowns down at his phone. The GPS has gone a bit haywire, is telling him that they’re on the opposite side of the island from where they actually are. He looks up in search of a street sign, but all he sees are more buildings that look exactly the same. “Well...”

“Oh God. Are we lost?”

Harry looks over at Louis. As per his request, he’s wearing his glasses, slim black plastic frames that contrast nicely with his tanned skin and the soft brown of his fringe. He’s wearing a jumper and shorts, which Harry had almost questioned, but then thought better of it. He looks nice, anyway, snuggly and younger than his twenty-one years, and Harry would quite like to hold his hand.

“Not lost, per se. I mean, we’re walking in the right direction, at least.”

He scowls down at his phone one last time, then just shuts off the map and pockets it. It’s not helping, anyway, and he doesn’t want to run down the battery before they even get to the Grand Canal.

“Maybe we should ask someone,” Louis suggests, and Harry sighs.

“Do you know Italian?”

Louis scrunches up his nose. Paired with the glasses, the resulting face is stupidly adorable. “Definitely not. But we’ve got the name of the place, yeah? And with like.” He waves his hands around like a flight attendant. “Hand gestures, you know. Maybe we could get by?”

Harry rubs the back of his neck, then nods. “Alright, we can try.”

They duck into the closest public building, which happens to be a butcher’s shop. Louis slaps a hand over his mouth and nose, eyes wide as he stares at half a cow hanging from the ceiling behind a woman in a blood-soaked apron.

“Si?”

“Um.” Harry shoots Louis a wide-eyed look before taking a step toward the counter. “Sorry, I don’t speak Italian. We’re trying to find the Ponte dell'Accademia?” At the woman’s skeptical look, he says hopefully, “Guggenheim?”

The woman sighs, then starts to rattle things off in rapid-fire Italian. She makes lots of hand gestures that Harry tries to catalog, and he thinks he catches the word “sinistra” several times, which he’s fairly certain means left. In the end, he just nods a lot, and shoots helpless looks over at Louis, who seems to be trying to look anywhere but the dead cow and the woman’s gory apron.

It’s definitely one of the more ridiculous situations he’s been in, and he bursts into laughter the moment they stumble out of the freezing shop and into the sunlight. Louis stands a little off to the side, gulping in fresh air and watching Harry as he bends over, hands braced on his knees as he laughs and laughs.

“You alright there, Curly?” Louis asks after a few minutes, coming over and resting a hand on Harry’s back.

“Yeah,” Harry wheezes. He reaches a hand out to pat the side of Louis’ thigh. “Just need a second.” Once he’s caught his breath, he straightens up and brushes his hair out of his face. “Right. D’you think we should find someone else, then? Someone who speaks English?”

Louis nods emphatically. “Yes. English. Definitely.” He casts a dark look back at the shop as they start to walk away. “And no more butchers.”

They take a left at the next alley anyway, just like Harry _thinks_ the woman said, and cross over a bridge spanning a small canal. The street dead-ends, though, and the only way to go is right. Frowning, Harry looks over at Louis with an eyebrow raised in question. Louis shrugs, a wordless response, but as they turn the corner, Harry feels a hand slip into his, fingers pressing between his own and squeezing reassuringly.

Of course, of fucking _course_ , that alley dead-ends as well, forcing them to turn right again.

“Well,” Harry says with a frown. “We’re definitely heading _away_ from the bridge now. I think we need to turn right again.”

They pass a few left turns only, then finally emerge onto a slightly larger street and take the right bend. Two more bridges over side canals and another right turn, and they’re standing back in front of the butcher’s shop.

“Fuck,” Harry says succinctly.

“You know, maybe we turned left too soon? Let’s go that way again and wait to turn.”

They do as Louis suggested, cross over two bridges and end up in a square of sorts with a fountain in the center. There’s a street branching off to the left, at least, so when Louis gestures at it, they chance it and turn. The street curves around a church and, miraculously, ends at the Ponte dell'Accademia.

“Oh my god,” Harry breathes. He squeezes Louis’ hand. “You did it.”

“Just wait,” Louis says, tone ominous. “Now we need to find the Guggenheim place _and_ find our way back.”

Harry chews on his bottom lip for a moment while he considers. He glances down at his watch.

“D’you think maybe we should just get some lunch around here and skip the Guggenheim Collection, go straight to the gondola ride?”

Louis cocks his head. “I don’t want to choose. You’re the one that’s into art, you decide.”

Harry holds Louis’ gaze, purses his lips, then sighs. “Let’s just go find food and a gondola.”

He starts to walk off, but Louis squeezes his hand and pulls him back, still standing facing the bridge. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Harry nods. “There will be art in other cities. Come on.”

They turn off onto a side street, carefully memorizing all of the turns they make, and find a small cafe for lunch, then make their way back to the Grand Canal in search of a gondola. In the end, they walk back to Piazza San Marco, where Harry remembers seeing a dock behind the Palazzo Ducale with a row of waiting gondolas.

Most of the gondoliers are already making deals with tourists, but as Harry and Louis walk down toward the dock, one of the free gondoliers shouts out in accented English, “Ciao! Good afternoon! Please, come!”

He waves them over enthusiastically. He’s wearing the typical outfit of a gondolier, a black and white striped shirt and black trousers, though his hat is resting on the floor of the gondola. He holds a hand out to shake as they walk up, one foot braced on the dock and the other still in the gondola. “Ciao, my name is Domenico, but you can call me Dom.”

Dom smiles widely at them, teeth blinding in the summer sun, and he’s actually sort of gorgeous, with wild brown hair and wide eyes so dark they’re nearly black, framed by thick lashes. His jaw is dusted with stubble and his shoulders are broad, biceps tugging at the material of his shirt.

“I’m Harry,” Harry says, and he drapes an arm across Louis’ shoulders. “This is Louis. We want to see the Grand Canal.”

Louis snorts and pokes him in the side. “I think that’s the whole point of the gondola rides, mate.”

Harry just shoves Louis toward Dom and lets him get on first, steadies Louis with both hands on his hips, then lets Dom help him onto the gondola with a hand cupping his elbow. As he drops onto the seat beside Louis, he notices Louis staring up at Dom, eyes a bit hard. He frowns and leans in, whispers, “Is everything alright? Do you want to take a different gondola?”

Louis shakes his head, hair brushing the side of Harry’s face, then tucks his nose into Harry’s neck, the frames of Louis’ glasses digging into the top of his shoulder, the plastic cool and hard against his skin. They fall silent as Dom starts rowing them out into the canal. He starts off by explaining a bit of the history of Venice to them, how the city was built and some of its military background. His voice is soothing, accent dipping and swirling around the words comfortably, and Harry leans back on his palms, tips his face up to the sun and smiles when Louis rests his head on his shoulder.

The canal is busy, boats and gondolas going in every direction, and there’s so much to see that Harry doesn’t know where to look. He takes dozens of photos as Dom tells them about different landmarks, snaps several of the Rialto Bridge from the water before the pass under it, and once they’ve turned off onto a side canal, heading back toward Piazza San Marco, he asks them, “So, you are from England?”

Harry tips his head back so he can smile up at Dom and nod.

“On summer vacation?”

Harry nods again. “Just two more months, then it’s off to university.”

“What are you studying?”

“I’m studying drama,” Louis says as he looks out at the buildings lining the canal, the afternoon sun glinting off the black frames of his glasses. Just like the walk to Piazza San Marco, the buildings are all different colors, built right up to the edge of the water. Some of them have mooring posts for boats, striped like candy canes that end in points, which Harry thinks must be designed to discourage birds from landing on them.

“And you, Harry?” Dom asks, reaching out to nudge Harry’s hand with the toe of his shoe. He’s smiling down at him, hair falling over his eyes, and Harry smiles back and shrugs helplessly.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Louis glances over at him, pats him on the knee and says, “Young Harold here wants to be a barrister.”

“A lawyer,” Harry says in explanation.

“Ah, fancy,” Dom says. “Are you going to wear expensive suits and drive a fancy car and carry around an attache?”

Louis snorts, but Harry just tips his head to the side and says, “Who knows. Maybe.”

“You might have to cut your hair, though, I’m sorry to say. It’s very nice, but not so serious.”

Harry gasps in faked indignation and clutches at his hair. “Never! I’m like Sampson, Dom. Cut my hair and I’m nothing.”

Domenico laughs uproariously at that, and Louis closes a hand around Harry’s thigh and squeezes.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks.

Louis shakes his head and leans in, murmurs, “He’s flirting with you.”

“What!” Harry laughs and pinches Louis’ side. “Come off it, he is not.”

Louis shrugs, but he leaves his hand on Harry’s leg, palm warm through the denim.

Once they’ve reached the end of the tour, Dom moves to help Harry and Louis out, but Harry turns and says, “Hey, before we get off, could you take a photo with us?”

“Of course! Here, let me get someone to take it for you.” He takes Harry’s phone and turns to speak to one of the other gondoliers in Italian, then hands the phone off and gestures toward the front of the gondola. “He’s going to stand there.”

Harry and Louis back up until they’re right in front of Dom, and Dom puts one hand on Louis’ shoulder and the other low on Harry’s back. Harry shoots Louis a quick glance, but doesn’t react otherwise, just smiles at the other gondolier when he holds up Harry’s phone and signals to them to smile. After he’s handed the phone back, Harry turns to Dom.

“Could you maybe take one of just the two of us?” He gestures between himself and Louis, and Domenico nods, motions for them to sit down. Louis drapes himself along Harry’s side, one arm around his waist and the other on Harry’s knee in a blatantly possessive gesture, and Harry grins broadly up at the phone.

They pay Dom, then clamber off the boat, and Dom turns to them and says, “It was lovely meeting you, Harry and Louis.” He pauses, then shifts his gaze to address Harry directly. “Listen, there is a club close to Piazza San Marco, if you are looking for a place to go tonight, me and some of the other gondoliers like to party there sometimes. You should join us.”

Harry ducks his head so Dom won’t see his smile. He can see Louis’ smug expression out of the corner of his eye, though, and when he looks back up, he says, “Thanks, but we already have plans for tonight.” He ignores the way Domenico’s face falls slightly as he takes Louis’ hand and backs them up a few steps. “It was nice meeting you, Domenico, thank you for the tour.”

“I told you,” Louis whispers as they turn to head up the dock, drilling a finger into Harry’s stomach. Harry bats his hand away with a laugh.

“I can’t believe he was flirting with me. What if we were together?” He turns to look at Louis. “Shouldn’t he have assumed we were together?”

Louis shrugs, but he tightens his grip on Harry’s hand. “Maybe we weren’t acting coupley enough.” Harry raises an eyebrow at him, and he just shrugs again. “Anyway, where are we going now?”

“Rialto Bridge,” Harry says, then looks around to try and get their bearings. “D’you think I should try the GPS again? We could walk it.”

“Can we just get that waterbus? It’ll be faster and we’re less likely to get lost, I think.”

“Probably a good idea.” Harry nudges Louis’ shoulder with his own, smiles down at him. “What would I do without you around?”

Louis snorts. “You’d still be wandering in circles around that butcher shop.”

  


The Rialto Bridge is completely overwhelming. It’s packed with people, and with shops on either side, Harry isn’t sure where to look. He grabs Louis’ hand the moment they step onto the bridge and doesn’t let go, afraid that if he does, he’ll lose him in the swarm. It takes them ages to get through it, because Louis wants to stop at every station. Even though Harry warns him it’s ridiculously overpriced, Louis buys his mum a pair of birds made of Murano glass, cradles them close to his chest as they fight their way to the other side of the bridge.

Once they come out the other side, Harry checks his watch. “Well, it’s still pretty early. Maybe we should go check out Zattere today, then leave for Rome earlier tomorrow?”

Louis shrugs. “Sounds alright to me.”

They get back on the Vaporetto and take it around to the Canale della Giudecca, then get off at Zattere. They walk around Zattere, popping in and out of shops for souvenirs as they walk along the maze of streets, then find a restaurant for dinner. It’s beautiful out, dark and cool, the streets lit up as tourists wander around the neighborhood. After dinner, they decide to walk back to their hostel, rather than take another waterbus. They get lost several times, but manage to find a few people who speak English this time to direct them back to the Ponte dell'Accademia, then it’s just a matter of retracing their steps from earlier that day.

Somehow, they manage not to get lost once they’ve crossed the bridge, and Harry lets out a triumphant laugh when they come to a stop in front of their hostel, holds out his hand for a high five. After they’ve set their new purchases down in their room, they head down to the computer in the study off the lobby of the hostel to take turns sending emails and look up different times for the train to Rome the next day.

Harry hooks his phone up to the computer and attaches photos to his email, then lets Louis do the same before he downloads them onto his flashdrive to clear space. Once they’ve both sent all the emails they need to, Harry turns to Louis. “Bed?”

They trudge back up to the room and shuck their clothes, but instead of getting into his own bed, Louis crawls in with Harry and tucks himself up against Harry’s side on the narrow mattress.

“Today was nice,” he says around a yawn, face pressed into Harry’s shoulder.

Harry nods his agreement as he draws his fingers up and down Louis’ arm. “Easy day tomorrow.”

“Good,” Louis murmurs, already sliding into sleep. He pets a hand down Harry’s chest and slurs, “I like it easy. No exercise.”

“I know,” Harry whispers, but Louis is already asleep.

 

~~

 

“Slight adjustment in plans,” Harry says, turning to look over his shoulder at Louis. He’s standing at the front desk of the hostel, both of their bags at his feet as he chats to the girl working the desk. He beckons Louis over. “Since we did Zattere last night, it doesn’t make sense to come back here to get our bags after Cannaregio. It’s too close to the train station. So instead of walking around Cannaregio, Nicola says we can rent a gondola and do a water tour of the neighborhood, that way we can just take our bags with us and not have to bother with carrying them all morning.”

“Cool,” Louis says simply.

Harry stares for a moment, taken aback by Louis’ easy agreement, then turns back to Nicola. “Right. We’ll just check out, then.”

Once they’ve done, they head back to the Vaporetti stop and catch the waterbus to Cannaregio, then find a stray gondola and make their request. It’s peaceful, boating through Cannaregio. They only come across a handful of boats the entire time they’re there, and their guide, a man named Paolo, tells them all about the neighborhood, pointing out buildings like Marco Polo’s house and Santa Maria dei Miracoli, a church Paolo tells them is built mostly of marble. Toward the end of the tour, as they approach the Grand Canal, Paolo points out a building and asks if they know what it is.

They both shake their heads as they stare up at it, three stories of graying stone with an out of place brick bell tower rising above the flat roof.

“This is a baroque palace,” Paolo explains, “with beautiful frescos inside. It’s named after a family that came here from Spain. They call it Palazzo Labia.”

Harry presses his lips together, but Louis’ jaw drops open. “What?”

“Palazzo Labia,” Paolo repeats, and Louis bursts out into laughter.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry tells Paolo as he claps Louis on the shoulder, his cheeks flaming red with embarrassment. “He’s very immature.”

“I’m sorry,” Louis gasps. “I know it’s their name, it’s just... really unfortunate, isn’t it?”

By the time Paolo lets them off on the Grand Canal, he looks displeased with Louis. Harry shakes his head exasperatedly at Louis as they walk to the train station. They’re only a few minutes away, conveniently enough, but they’ve got time, so they stop for lunch.

“I think Paolo was a bit scandalized,” Harry muses as he spoons up some of his minestrone.

“I couldn’t help it,” Louis defends. “Why would anyone name a place something like that? They’re just asking for it to be made fun of, honestly.”

Harry kicks at Louis’ ankle under the table.

“Twat,” he murmurs fondly. Louis rolls his eyes and grabs Harry’s foot between his own, locks his ankles together behind Harry’s calf so he can’t pull it back.

“So,” he says. “Rome.”

“The Eternal City,” Harry says with a smile. “Are you excited?”

“Definitely,” Louis nods. “It’s gonna be a good one. I’m going to make a wish at the Trevi Fountain and meet the Pope and take gladiator lessons. It’s going to be epic,” he says, with an exaggerated popping noise.

“Epic,” Harry agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so long??? The next one is going to be the longest, though, I think. Rome AND Athens, kill me. Ah, as always feedback welcome! I feel like an asshole, linking to my tumblr every time, so I'm not going to this time. (I'm supernope there as well, though. Hah, oops. Self-pimpage time is now over, I promise.)
> 
> Standard thanks to Michelle (goddamnitharold) and Paula (who doesn't have a tumblr because she sucks) for being badass, and to Paula again for telling me about her own experiences in Venice and letting me borrow bits and pieces for my story. ♥


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aah sorry for the wait! Here, have 11,000 words of fluff.
> 
> (Hiiii, I suck at reading maps, even the easy-to-read Eurorail map, apparently, and did not realize that going from Rome to Athens requires transfer to a boat and then back to a train. So let's pretend it's an underground train, like the one from London to Paris (which is what I assumed it would be), because fixing it would change the entire scene and I am a lazy fuck. Suspension of disbelief at work!)
> 
> _you come beating like moth’s wings_  
>  spastic and violently  
> whipping me into a storm  
> shaking me down to the core

It is absolute hell finding their hostel in Rome. By some stroke of rotten luck, they get the one taxi driver who has never heard of the hostel, much less the street it’s on, and they end up driving in the complete opposite direction for a bit before demanding he let them out so they can find another taxi. They have better luck with the second one, and stumble into the hostel at half nine, too exhausted and frazzled to do anything other than fall into bed.

Unlike Venice, this hostel does have bunk beds, and when Harry moves to set his bag at the foot of the bottom bunk, Louis clears his throat and raises an eyebrow at him until he sighs and drops it on the ground. He doesn’t bother doing anything with his bag, just toes off his shoes and yanks his jeans and shirt off, sets the fedora on top of the pile, then climbs the ladder and faceplants onto the mattress.

  
  


Harry wakes up at a quarter to eight the next morning feeling slightly punch drunk, despite almost ten hours of sleep.

“Lou,” he croaks out. No answer. “Louis.”

Harry drags himself down the ladder, then ducks into the bottom bunk and drapes himself over Louis’ back like a blanket, chin tucked down over the top of Louis’ shoulder.

“Louis,” he murmurs, voice low and rumbly, right in Louis’ ear. He feels the moment Louis wakes up, feels his body jolt underneath his and his hands clench around the pillow.

“Fuck,” Louis mutters when he realizes he can’t move. He twists his head back so he can see Harry’s face. “Fuck, you’re fucking heavy, oh my god, I literally can’t move.”

Harry just presses his grin into the skin of Louis’ neck. He’s slightly sleep-sweaty and smells a little ripe from travel, but it’s a comfortable smell, tangled with the scent of his shampoo and the deodorant he’d refreshed on the train, and Harry doesn’t mind. In fact - he sticks his tongue out and licks a stripe up Louis’ neck.

Louis makes a grumbling noise in his throat and Harry can feel his feet twitch at the end of the bed, can see his hands tighten around the pillow, and Harry turns his face toward the mattress and grins stupidly into the sheets. He gives himself a moment longer to appreciate the way Louis is radiating warmth and the way his bum feels pressed against his crotch, then scrambles back and off the bed, leans back in to slap Louis’ ass, then dances away, giggling madly, when Louis flings a hand out to grab him. Apparently, the best way for Harry to properly wake up is to come into full-body contact with Louis. He’ll have to remember that.

“Come on, Lou,” he sing-songs. “Get up, get up, today you meet the Pope!”

“Fuck the Pope,” Louis mumbles into the mattress, and Harry gasps and presses a hand to his heart.

“Blasphemy, Louis Tomlinson.” Louis just flips him the bird, face still buried in his pillow. “Ugh, Louissss.” Harry draws his name out on a whine. “Come on, we got like ten hours of sleep, get up, let’s go get breakfast and _go_.”

Louis finally rolls over so he’s not speaking into a mass of cotton and says, voice still scratchy with sleep, “Why are you so bloody cheerful.”

Harry shrugs, hands clasped behind his back. He’s fairly certain he looks ridiculous, clad only in a pair of tight black boxer briefs and mismatched tube socks, hair sticking up all over the place, but he’s too excited to care. They’re in _Rome_. He thinks Rome is probably the most romantic city, after Paris, and he’s bloody excited to share it with Louis. After they get all of the religious crap out of the way.

Also, he gets to see the Sistine Chapel.

Harry skips back over to the bed and holds his hands out to Louis. “Come on, Lou, today is going to be great, I can _feel_ it.”

Louis smiles up at him, sleepy-soft and slow, and Harry’s heart flutters. “You mean I’m actually going to get to meet the Pope?”

Harry laughs. “No, probably not. But it’s going to be a good day.”

He wiggles his fingers at Louis and raises his eyebrows hopefully, and with a sigh, Louis places his hands in Harry’s and lets him tug him out of bed. They get dressed quickly, and while Harry is hopping into his trousers, he hears Louis say, “Last pair of pants!”

When he looks over, Louis is waving them around in the air. “Laundry tomorrow, I promise. Or tonight, if we get back early enough.”

They grab breakfast downstairs, then get directions to the bus stop from the cheerful girl working at the front desk.

“You really like that hat, don’t you,” Louis muses while they wait for the bus. They’re leant against the little shelter at the stop, angled away from a man who’s chain smoking nervously and rattling off into his phone in rapidfire Greek. Harry shrugs.

“Yeah, I think so.” He shifts his gaze up, trying to catch a glimpse of the brim from where the fedora is perched on his head. “I mean, I know you bought it as a joke, but it’s alright, isn’t it?”

He catches the tail end of a fond smile as he looks back down at Louis.

“Yeah,” Louis murmurs. “It’s alright.”

  


The bus takes a bit longer than anticipated, but they have cardboard cups of tea and crumbly scones, and Louis’ leg hooked over Harry’s knee, anchored there by Harry’s hand, and Harry would probably agree to just ride the bus around all day long if it meant they could sit together like this. And that he still got to see the Sistine Chapel at some point.

They do eventually get to Vatican City, though, and they hop off the bus in front of Saint Peter’s Square with stiff legs and hands full of trash. At their first glimpse of the Basilica, Harry’s mind immediately goes to the film _Angels and Demons_ , and he’s a little bit ashamed of himself for it. He decides not to mention it to Louis. They find a bin to get rid of their breakfast scraps, then move to take the place in.

It’s a bit overwhelming, really. It’s large enough that the clusters of tourists barely fill it, and the obelisk in the center, framed off by ornate lamp posts, and the backdrop of the enormous Saint Peter’s Basilica is just lovely. They spend a few minutes wandering the square, feet dragging across cobblestone and hands trailing over columns, then decide to tour the Basilica first.

The inside of the Basilica is massive and wide-open and beautiful. Harry makes himself dizzy, constantly spinning in circles to ensure that he takes in absolutely everything. They go down into the crypt, walk through the treasury, then climb to the top of the dome and look out over Rome. Harry makes Louis take a photo of him pinching the obelisk between his fingers, despite the accompanying eyeroll, then makes him walk through the main room of the Basilica one more time before they head back out to the square.

“Okay, here’s the thing,” Harry says as they come to a stop next to one of the fountains flanking the obelisk. Louis turns to face him, eyebrows raised in question. “The Sistine Chapel is pretty much the entire reason I wanted to come to Rome. So like, I think we should do that last. So the excitement builds up.”

“Oh...kay?” Louis looks confused. “Wait, do you mean last, like, the last day we’re here, or last like after we’ve been to the gardens and stuff?”

“Last today. Oh my god, you want me to wait a week to see the Sistine Chapel? Do you want to torture me? I’ve been waiting _eighteen years_ for this, Tomlinson.”

“Hey,” Louis laughs. He reaches his hands out to grip Harry’s arms. “I’m not saying we should wait till the last day, oh my god. Oh.” He pauses, looks around the square. “Is that. Should I not say that here? Shit.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I’m pretty sure cursing is worse, Louis. Plus, you did curse the Pope this morning.”

“Whatever, I don’t really care anyway. The only time I even bother with church is on Christmas, and that’s just to please my mum. Come on, let’s go to the garden.”

The queue takes nearly an hour, and Louis disappears for a bit, then comes back with sandwiches for them to eat while they wait. Once they get to the front, though, they’re shuttled right into a guided tour and sent on their way. The gardens take nearly two hours, and by the end of it, Harry’s feet ache, but he’s got loads of photos to send his mum, and he and Louis have made friends with a few of the cats that live there. At one point, he even manages to snap a photo of four of them winding around Louis’ legs at once, before the tour guide rushes them along to another area.

They segue into the Vatican museum after the garden, though Harry is antsy with anticipation for the Sistine Chapel, and Louis is tired of museums. Halfway through, Louis slips his hand into Harry’s and rests his head on Harry’s shoulder as they walk, eyelids heavy and body loose and sleepy.

Louis whines pathetically when they turn a corner expecting to find the doors to the chapel, but find another room of statues and relics, instead. Harry laughs and pats his hand. “Don’t worry, love, we’re leaving. I don’t think I can handle any more religious relics today that don’t come with the word ‘Sistine’ attached.”

They wind their way quickly through the rooms in search of the entrance to The Sistine Chapel. Harry leads Louis to the doors by his hand, excitement thrumming through his veins. This is it. He comes to a stop in front of the doors to the chapel and takes a long, slow breath. The doors are propped open, two bored looking guards flanking it, and Harry has to drop Louis’ hand so he can scrub his sweating palms on his jeans. He laughs shakily and says, “I’m nervous. Is it silly that I’m nervous?”

He can feel Louis watching him, can almost _feel_ the fondness pouring off of him in waves, and he glances over quickly. Louis’ voice is soft when he says, “No, babe, of course not.”

“Okay,” Harry says, bolstered by Louis’ support. He claps his hands against his thighs and announces, “I’m ready.”

They march up to the door and Harry brushes past the guards, breath held in anticipation. He waits until they’re centered in the chapel to look up, breath still held, lets it out slowly as he tips his head back toward the ceiling.

“Oh,” he breathes out, completely floored. He likes art well enough, enjoys seeing the masterpieces as much as the next person, but this. There’s absolutely nothing like it in the world, he thinks, and he’s having a hard time breathing. He feels a bit faint, actually, clenches his hands into fists at his side and blinks rapidly as he stares up at the frescoes blanketing the ceiling.

They’re directly underneath _The Creation of Adam_ , and Harry almost doesn’t want to blink anymore in case it all disappears, still can’t really breathe, and he doesn’t even realize that he’s sort of swaying in place until he hears Louis murmur, “Hey, easy, Harry.”

He feels a hand slide over his fist and pry his fingers gently open, then Louis is slipping his fingers between Harry’s and squeezing reassuringly, and Harry feels some of the tension leave his body, feels his lungs fill up with air and the pressure on his chest ease. He squeezes back, grateful for Louis’ presence, grateful for _Louis_ , and he doesn’t even try to stop a wide smile from spreading across his face.

They stay in there for what feels like hours. Once Harry can pry his attention away from the ceiling, they walk the perimeter of the chapel slowly, trying to take everything in before they have to leave.

Only once they’ve, reluctantly, exited back out into the museum does Harry feel like he can finally breathe properly again. It hits him, suddenly and with a rush of emotion, that he’s just seen the _Sistine Chapel_ , and he stops in the middle of the room and gives a weak laugh, then drops his face into his cupped palms, takes deep, ragged breaths until the burning behind his eyes recedes and his thumping heartbeat slows in his chest.

“Haz,” Louis says tentatively as he slides a hand across Harry’s back. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles, muffled by his palms. He lifts his head, sniffs back a couple of tears that have managed to escape, then breathes out a sigh. “Yeah, I’m good.”

He bites his lip and looks back at the open doors, slumps into it automatically when Louis lifts onto his toes and wraps his arms around Harry’s neck in a hug. Harry curls his around Louis’ waist and drags him close, buries his face in the crook of his neck and says into his shirt, “It took Michelangelo four years to paint that ceiling.”

“I know,” Louis murmurs, tone understanding despite the randomness of the statement. He cups his hand around the back of Harry’s neck and slides his fingers up into Harry’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp.

Harry takes another moment to just breathe Louis in, then sighs out, “Okay.”

He takes a step back, letting his hands fall away from Louis, then looks around, vaguely embarrassed at his little breakdown.

“Okay, let’s move on.”

“What do you want to do?”

Harry looks around the room. They’ve pretty much done all he wanted to do in Vatican City, and it’s nearing five in the evening, which means it will probably take them even longer to get back to the city center than it had taken to get here. He looks over at Louis, who’s just watching him quietly, waiting for him to decide.

“Want to head back toward the hostel? We can get dinner in town, then walk around the area a bit.”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Louis says with a nod, and he reaches out for Harry’s hand before they move to find the exit back out to the square.

They don’t get back to their hostel until after six, decide to pop inside to wash up a bit before going out in search of food. The guy manning the front desk recommends a trattoria a few blocks over when they ask after places to eat, and even draws them a little map so they won’t get lost. Louis slings an arm around Harry’s waist and tucks his index finger through one of Harry’s belt loops as they step out onto the sidewalk and Harry bites his lip around a smile, drapes his arm around Louis’ neck and tugs him close so their hips knock together as they walk. He folds the little map into his pocket as they turn the corner and catch sight of the trattoria, turns his head to nose at Louis’ temple before dropping his arm and stepping away so he can wave Louis through the open front door.

They pick a seat out on the terrace, and Harry demands wine so enthusiastically that Louis laughs at him and says, “Well, alright then mister wine-o, pick your poison. But if you think I’m going to drag your drunk arse back to the hostel, then you’re sorely mistaken.”

Harry ends up asking the waitress for her recommendation, and once they’ve gotten their first glasses and have ordered their food, Harry reaches across the table and grabs Louis’ hand in both of his. He plays absently with Louis’ fingers for a moment before saying, “Hey, thanks. For today. And stuff.”

When he looks up, Louis’ got his head tilted to the side in confusion. “For what?”

Harry shrugs, not really sure what he’s trying to get at. He just feels like he needs to let Louis know how much he appreciates him. “Just, you know, for going to the Sistine Chapel with me. For traveling with me at all, really. I know you’d rather not have seen some of the things we’ve done, but you do it anyway because you know I want to, and I appreciate that.”

He hears Louis huff out a breath, and then he says, “Harry, if I really didn’t want to do something, I would say so.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry says with an uncomfortable shift of his shoulders. “I just, I know you don’t really like art, and we’ve spent loads of time looking at some, especially today, and I just -”

“Harry,” Louis cuts in. “Shut up and drink your wine. You don’t need to thank me, you idiot, I _want_ to do these things with you.”

Harry has to drop his gaze to the tablecloth and press his lips together to stop himself from grinning like a fool. He feels incredibly light, at the moment, and he reaches out with both feet, hooks them around Louis’ ankles and looks back up. They just sit there, holding hands and feet and grinning at each other, until their waitress comes back with their appetizer.

They eat in relative silence, feet still hooked together underneath the table, then order a tiramisu to share. Harry’s a bit wine tipsy, head spinning pleasantly, and he giggles when Louis tries to knock his spoon away from the plate so he can get a bite first.

“Hey,” Harry protests. “I let you choose the dessert, let me have a bite!”

“Exactly,” Louis counters. “I chose it, so you should let me taste it first to make sure it’s satisfactory.”

“Oh my god, you are so dumb.” Harry slumps back in his chair, conceding defeat, and lets Louis take first. His first bite is prim, just a small scoop of the tiramisu, and he moans his approval around the spoon. It’s sort of obscene, really, and Harry takes a furtive look around to make sure no one has noticed. Once Louis has waved a hand at Harry to go on, Harry aims a sly little grin at him, then takes a heaping spoonful of the dessert and stuffs the entire thing into his mouth.

Louis gapes at him in shock, then makes a little noise of indignation and drags the plate across the table so that it’s directly in front of him. “That’s it. I get _three_ bites before you can have any more. That was the biggest bite I’ve ever seen, you pig.”

Harry just offers him a chocolatey grin in response.

 

Once they’ve finished and paid, they stroll around a couple of the surrounding blocks hand in hand. Halfway through the walk, Harry drags Louis to a stop on one of the side streets so that he can press his face to the window of a pet store. The walls are lined with birds and rodents, and the front window is full of tiny, sleeping puppies. Harry coos at them through the glass while Louis watches him, shoulder resting against the window so he’s angled toward Harry rather than the animals.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says once Harry’s taken a reluctant step back from the shop. There are marks from his face on the glass, and it’s fogged up where he’d been making noises at the puppies.

Harry just shrugs and smiles at Louis, wide and open and happy, and says, “You love it.”

Louis lets out a little snort as they start to walk away from the shop, but they’ve only made it a few steps before Louis stops right in the middle of the sidewalk without saying a word. Harry feels the pull on his hand as he keeps walking, stops and turns around with a little frown.

“Lou?”

Louis is standing on the edge of the sidewalk by the curb, directly under the yellow cone of light from a streetlamp. His eyes are shadowed, and Harry can’t really make out the expression on his face, so he takes a step closer, confusion turning the corners of his mouth down.

“Is everything alright, Louis?” Harry says uncertainly. “Did I say something, or -”

He’s cut off by Louis yanking, hard, on his hand so that he stumbles forward gracelessly with the unexpected tug. Louis catches him with a hand on his hip, and he barely gets a chance to right himself before Louis is bouncing up onto his toes, lifting a hand to Harry’s cheek, and fitting their mouths together.

Harry sucks in a sharp breath through his nose, fingers clenching painfully around Louis’, and before he even has a chance to think of what he’s doing, he’s dropping Louis’ hand and wrapping both of his arms around Louis, banding them across his back and crushing Louis against his chest.

Louis’ hand slides back into Harry’s hair, the other lifting to curl around the back of his neck, and Harry parts his lips, moans happily when Louis licks into his mouth instantly. As far as first kisses go, it’s definitely one of Harry’s favorites. Louis is warm and solid against him, their lips slotted together perfectly, and he smells like wine and chocolate and alfredo sauce and tastes even better.

He loses track of how long they stand there, kissing under the streetlamp on a deserted street in Rome while a litter of puppies sleeps a few feet away, but by the time Louis eases back, the sounds of people laughing and shouting approaching them from down the street, his mouth feels swollen and his head is swimming with the taste of Louis.

He already misses the feeling of Louis’ body pressed up against his own, is trying to figure out appropriate protocol for a situation like this, when Louis grabs his hand and says, voice rough and slow, “Come on, let’s head back.”

Much to Harry’s disappointment, once they’ve showered and gathered up their dirty clothes to wash the next morning, Louis gets into his own bed and does not invite Harry into it with him. Harry has to remind himself that it is perfectly okay for them to sleep in separate beds, that all they’ve done is make out on a street corner and that does not automatically equate to semi-public sex in a bunk bed in a youth hostel, no matter how badly he wishes it did.

Despite his vague disappointment at the lack of mutual (or any) orgasms, Harry falls asleep with a beaming smile on his face.

 

~~

 

When Harry wakes up the next morning to his alarm buzzing under his pillow, decidedly alone in his bed, he’s about seventy-five percent certain he’d dreamed last night up. He fumbles his way down the ladder and wakes Louis by scratching lightly at his back, and once he’s sure Louis is at least half-awake, he gathers up his toiletries and heads off to brush his teeth.

Halfway through, Louis slumps into the bathroom and drops his bag by the sink beside Harry’s. He’s all sleep-rumpled, hair standing in about thirty different directions and pillow creases on his cheek, and he looks so adorable that Harry’s heart actually aches.

“Morning,” he mumbles around the handle of his toothbrush, accidentally drooling toothpaste onto the counter.

Louis snorts and croaks out, “Attractive.”

Harry just shrugs, crosses his eyes and aims a foamy smile at him in the mirror. He draws out his morning regimen, despite the chill in the bathroom, cold from the floor tiles seeping up his bare legs and raising goosebumps along his back and arms. Louis is positively sloth-like in the morning, and Harry has run out of things to do by the time Louis’ finished brushing his teeth and washing his face, has resorted to fussing with his fringe in the mirror to appear busy.

“What are you doing?” Louis’ voice is still gruff with sleep, and Harry suppresses a shiver.

“I went to sleep with wet hair,” he says by way of explanation as he tugs on a wayward curl. “My hair dried all wonky.”

Louis turns to face him and leans a hip on the counter. “No one’s going to be able to tell under the fedora, you know.”

Harry shrugs. “I’ll know, though. Can’t be walking around Rome with wonky hair, what if we run into Pietro Boselli? He won’t want me if my hair is wonky.”

Louis just blinks at Harry for a moment, like he’s not even sure how to respond.

“I highly doubt Pietro Boselli lives in Rome, mate. And even if he did, and we did run into him, it’s not happening.”

“Hey,” Harry says, offended. “You don’t think he’d want a piece of this?”

He indicates himself, clad only in pants and socks again, hair wild, tattoos on display. Louis laughs and straightens up, combs a hand through his own hair.

“Naturally. I mean look at you, practically a male model, yourself.” Harry nods, smug, and runs a hand over his abs, preening a bit. But then Louis reaches out, fingertips skimming his lower belly, and he sucks in a sharp breath, drops his hands to his sides. “But even if he did, he can’t have you.”

Harry only has time to swallow nervously before Louis is hooking a finger in the waistband of his pants and dragging him forward. He goes up onto his toes to meet Harry halfway, and before their mouths are even touching, Louis has got both hands in Harry’s hair, tugging him down into the kiss. He tastes like toothpaste, teeth and tongue still a bit gritty with it, but Harry couldn’t care less. He pulls Louis in with hands on his waist, then swivels around to press him back against the counter.

They kiss softly, still half-asleep, their tongues sliding together languidly, until the bathroom door swings open and a girl with dreadlocks and a towel wrapped around her body walks in, then stops dead.

“Oh.”

Harry eases back with a cocky grin, stupidly happy with this new development, and gives her a little wave, says cheerfully, “Hello! Have a good shower!”

Then he tosses Louis a wink, grabs his toiletry bag, and heads back to their room. He can hear Louis apologizing to the girl as he crosses the hall, smiles dopily at the floor as he pushes into the dorm. Not a dream, then, he thinks happily.

  


Their morning is spent wandering the Borghese Gardens, then walking along Via del Babuino in search of souvenirs and lunch. It’s not much different than past mornings, in that they walk with their hands clasped between them, fingers twined together, but every once in a while, Louis will squeeze Harry’s hand and butterflies will erupt in his belly, and he’ll have to reel Louis in and press a kiss to his temple before letting him go, immensely pleased that he’s allowed to do that now.

After lunch, they walk to the Great Synagogue and walk through it and the museum. Afterward, standing on the sidewalk, Harry turns to Louis and says, “Okay, I have a request for something not on the list.”

Louis’ brow furrows in confusion. “What is it?”

“There’s this sanctuary.” He draws out a pause, a bit nervous and feeling sort of silly. “For cats. I saw it online the other day, but then I kind of forgot about it.”

Louis snorts out a disbelieving laugh.

“Are you serious?”

“It’s also an ancient ruin?” Harry widens his eyes and pouts out his bottom lip.

Louis lets out another little laugh, then reaches out and yanks Harry into a kiss by the back of his neck, murmurs against his mouth, “Only you, Harry.” He lets Harry go and continues, “Only you would come all the way to Rome to go look at stray cats. And only I would be fool enough to go along with you.”

Harry feels a smile curl his lips, and he can’t keep the excitement out of his voice when he says, “Is that a yes?”

Louis rolls his eyes.

“Yes, you idiot.”

 

The cat sanctuary is Harry’s personal heaven. There are cats everywhere, lounging on bits of ancient stone and crumbled columns, dozing in patches of sunlight, perched on low walls cleaning themselves. Harry sits down on the ground in the middle of an overgrown bit of sidewalk and lets the cats come to him, laughs up at Louis when they flock to him, as well, despite his reluctance to pet them.

“You had no problem with the ones at the Vatican,” Harry points out. “What’s wrong with these cats? They _like_ you!”

“They’re dirty,” Louis complains, and Harry sighs.

“You can wash your hands after, you know. I know you’re not a germophobe, you weirdo.”

Louis sticks his tongue out at Harry, then looks down at the cat currently sitting on his foot and meowing plaintively at him. In the end, he sighs and sits down with Harry, knees pressed together, and helps him pet the cats as they wander over. After the sanctuary, they walk to Via Giulia for more shopping and dinner, then head back to the hostel to grab their clothes and do their washing at a laundromat a few blocks over.

The laundromat is small and dark and empty, just two rows of washers and a wall of dryers, weak overhead fluorescents flickering sporadically as Harry and Louis push into the small shop with their duffels slung over their shoulders. It doesn’t take them long to sort their clothes into loads and start the machines up, and while Harry is looking around the small room for something to entertain himself with, Louis hops up onto one of the machines and kicks a leg out toward him.

“Hey, Haz. Get your cute little bum over here.”

“Hey,” Harry protests, but he walks over to Louis, of course he does. “Just because you’ve got a generous helping doesn’t mean you get to discriminate against those of us who haven’t been blessed.”

He wraps his hands around Louis’ knees and pushes them apart so he can slide between them, then strokes his hands up Louis’ thighs. He grins when Louis hooks a finger in his collar and tugs him forward, stopping when their mouths are only a centimeter apart.

“Are you saying I have a big bum?”

Harry shrugs nonchalantly, but he’s smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. “You said it, not me.”

“You’re such an arsehole,” Louis murmurs, but it’s lost against Harry’s mouth.

 

~~

 

The next few days are spent in a kiss-hungry haze. They go on another self-guided walking tour of Rome, from Piazza Navona to Trastevere, then take a day trip to Pompeii on Sunday, when many of the tourist activities in Rome are shut down for religious purposes. On Monday they take a day trip to Tivoli, and on Tuesday they walk from the Colosseum to Palatine Hill, the Pantheon to Castel Sant’Angelo. The man working the desk at the hostel warns them that the Trevi Fountain is packed during the day, so they wait until after dinner, then walk to Trevi with another hand-drawn map, courtesy of Henri the hostel concierge.

It’s nearly midnight by the time they get there. It’s quiet out, only a few stragglers left in the area, and the fountain is lit up from inside the water and the surrounding buildings, so that the stone glows an unearthly yellow.

Harry walks around it slowly, trying to take it all in, then walks back to the center where Louis is waiting.

“What d’you reckon,” Louis asks. He’s holding a hand out, two coins resting on his palm. “Euro or quid?”

“Quid,” Harry says, and he fishes a handful of coins out of his own pocket. “More representative, I think.” He turns to Louis. “Hey, are you only supposed to throw in one coin?”

Louis looks down at his hand. “I dunno. You’re mister research, why are you asking me?”

“You think I should google it?”

Louis frowns and turns toward Harry. “Is it really that important?”

“We need to do it right, Louis, this is our only chance. Here, hold these.” He presses his coins into Louis’ hand, unlocks his phone, and calls up google. “It says here you throw one if you want to come back, two to fall in love, and three to marry a Roman.”

“Well, I don’t think I want to marry a Roman, to be honest, so we’re good there.”

Harry looks up as he pockets his phone. “And you have to turn around and throw it over your shoulder, otherwise it won’t work.”

“Right,” Louis says with a little scoff. He hands Harry back his coins and says, eyebrow raised, “How many coins are you gonna throw?”

Harry contemplates the coins for a moment, then looks up with a smirk.

“I don’t think I’m going to tell you.”

“You’re not gonna to tell me if you’ve designs on my heart?” Harry shakes his head, a coy smile curling his lips. “Scoundrel.”

“That’s me,” Harry murmurs as he turns around. Louis is still facing him, his coins clutched in his palm. “Don’t watch me, you cheater.” He waves a hand at Louis. “Throw your own coins in. Come on, let’s do it at the same time.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but he turns around so his back is to the fountain and readies his arm. Harry slides a side-long glance at him as he fusses with the coins in his cupped hand, so Louis can’t see how many he’s picking out, then slides the rest of them back into his pocket.

“Ready?”

Louis nods and counts them off. Harry shifts the coins in his hand, suddenly nervous, but when Louis gets to one, he flings them back over his shoulder in tandem with Louis. They land with little plops, and when he turns his head, Louis is already facing him, looking at him through squinted eyes.

“I tried to count the number of coins that hit the water, but I couldn’t tell.”

Harry shrugs, a serene expression on his face.

“You’ll never know,” he sing-songs, then reaches out to grasp one of Louis’ belt loops and reel him in. “Listen, you. Rome is supposed to be romantic, but all you’ve done is make fun of me and you need to make it up to me. Now kiss me.”

Louis sighs and rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling and his hands are already sliding up over Harry’s shoulders.

“You’re very demanding, you know that?”

Harry shrugs, hands grasping Louis’ hips and hauling him in closer so their chests are pressed together. He ducks his head and rubs his lips over Louis’ in a chaste kiss, nips lightly at his bottom lip.

“You love it.”

 

~~

 

Every night they spend in Rome is so full of walking and seeing and doing that they fall into bed too exhausted to do much more than kiss lazily and fall asleep curled around each other. Harry’s not sure whether to be grateful they’re getting the most out of this trip, or frustrated over the orgasms he is definitely not having.

Their last day is spent touring the Baths of Caracalla and Aventine Hill, then a trip out to the Basilica of Saint Paul Outside the Walls, and with a couple of hours left until their train to Athens, they settle down to send emails.

Harry had sent one to just Gemma late last week with a photo of him and Louis standing on Ponte Sisto, Harry’s mouth pressed to Louis’ cheek and Louis’ hand slung low on Harry’s hip. It’s pretty obvious from the photo that they’re more than just travel buddies now, and he’s got a rather embarrassing email from her in return that simply says, “ _get it._ ”

He lets out a betrayed gasp when he opens an email from his mum that reads:

> _Harry Styles,_
> 
> _I can’t believe I had to hear about this from Gemma! Are you being safe? You’ve only know this boy for a few weeks, don’t rush into anything! I know you don’t want to hear this from me, but you’re my baby and I just want you to be careful, okay? Email me soon, and don’t you dare keep things like this from me again! It’s a good thing your sister is a shameless gossip, at least. Worthless, the lot of you._
> 
> _Love, mum xxx_

Harry drops his burning face into his hands and lets out a little whimper when Louis reads the email over his shoulder and bursts into laughter. Harry reaches out blindly to smack his arm.

“Don’t laugh at me, she thinks we’re _shagging_ and she’s offended I didn’t tell her.” He lifts his head to gaze dolefully at Louis. “Whose mum does that? She’s not normal, that one.”

He sends his mum a long email with all of the details of their travels in Rome, attaches a few photos, then clicks out of the thread to send a one-line email to Gemma.

> _Traitor. You are the worst._

 

~~

 

The train ride to Athens takes a full day. They spend the first half of it asleep, Louis with his back pressed to the window and Harry resting back against his chest between his updrawn knees.

Harry wakes up some time later to Louis shifting around in the seat behind him. He tips his head back so he can blink blurrily up at Louis.

"My arse has gone numb," Louis explains.

Harry just hums and offers him a sleepy smile that gets distorted when he's overtaken by a yawn, tongue curling against the roof of his mouth before ending in a huff of breath. He feels one of Louis' hands creep up his chest to grip his chin, and then Louis is twisting his head back toward himself and murmuring, "You are really adorable."

"Hey," Harry protests. "I think sexy is the word you’re looking for, mate. Adorable is reserved for children and, like, furry animals."

"Your hair is a furry animal."

"Rude."

Louis just shrugs and covers Harry's mouth with his own. He tastes a bit stale, but then Harry supposes he does, too, so he just parts his lips and lets Louis lick inside. It's not exactly comfortable in this position, neck and torso twisted at odd angles, but Louis is warm and solid and he smells nice and familiar, and he's a rather good kisser, even when still sleep-groggy. Harry reaches back to curl a hand around the back of Louis' neck and draw him down a bit, tips his own head back further, ignoring the protesting twinge of muscle, so Louis can deepen the kiss.

They're in the middle of a train, hurtling toward Athens, but Harry isn't too worried about onlookers. It's about six in the morning and the compartment is silent around them, only the noise of the wheels on the tracks and the soft sounds of lips moving together penetrating their airplane-like bubble. Louis’ other hand has been wrapped around Harry’s torso since they curled up together, but he’s dragging it slowly across Harry’s stomach now, tips of his fingers catching in the dips between his muscles.

Louis pulls back a millimeter to murmur, “You have really nice abs.”

Harry huffs out a laugh and drags Louis back in. He feels Louis’ fingers scrabble against the material of his shirt until it’s rucked up enough that, when he flattens his palm against Harry’s stomach again, it’s skin on skin. It’s Harry’s turn to hum into Louis’ mouth, pleased.

And it’s not that it’s been over a week since he’s even had a wank, it’s really not. Well, maybe it partially is, but it’s also because this is _Louis_ , and Louis is gorgeous and fit and nice and funny and _fit_ , and Harry is only human.

He shifts a little on the seat, wiggling around so his dick isn’t pressing directly against the zip of his jeans, and he thinks he’s being subtle about it, but then he feels Louis’ lips curve against his own and he murmurs, “Problem, Styles?”

“No,” Harry says immediately. “Definitely not. More kissing.” Louis doesn’t close the bit of space between them now, though, and Harry whines a little. “Why aren’t we kissing?”

“Shh,” Louis whispers, and Harry is thrown even further for a loop when Louis leans into the gap between the seats and grabs his jacket off the floor of the train.

“What -” Harry frowns down at it, clutched in Louis’ hand. The one that is no longer on Harry’s skin - something Harry is not happy about. “Are you cold?”

Louis shakes his head no, hair brushing the side of Harry’s face, and his confusion deepens when Louis tosses the coat over Harry’s legs.

“Lou, what are you -”

He’s cut off by Louis’ hand on his stomach again and Louis’ mouth at his ear. “Keep quiet, alright?”

“What -” His sentence trails off into a strangled groan when Louis’ hand slides down over the front of his trousers, palm warm and firm against the underside of his dick. “Louis,” he hisses. “We’re on a train! There are _people_ around us.”

“No one can see,” Louis whispers. “Just relax.”

Harry feels fingers at his fly, flicking the button open easily and tugging the zip down with barely a whisper of metal teeth, muffled underneath the jacket, and then Louis’ hand is in his pants. Harry can’t help the way his hips jerk up against the rough, callused grip of Louis’ fingers. His head falls back against Louis’ shoulder, breath whooshing out in a silent moan.

It’s not the most comfortable of handjobs, Louis’ hand too dry, but it’s as if Louis is reading his mind, because a moment later, he pulls his hand away and lifts it to his mouth, makes a show of laving his tongue over the skin before, with a wink, shoving it back underneath the jacket and taking Harry in hand again. It’s better now, easy slide, and Harry makes a breathy little whimpering noise when Louis flicks his thumb over the head of his dick, gathering the precome already beaded there and slicking it down over the shaft for an easier stroke.

It’s a good angle - a perfect angle, actually, and the tightness of Louis’ grip and the flick of his wrist on the upstroke is enough to have Harry trembling within minutes, hands clutching at Louis’ thighs as an anchor as he tries desperately not to fuck up into Louis’ grip or make any noises that would alert their fellow travelers to what Louis is doing.

He can feel his orgasm coiling in his gut embarrassingly quickly, but honestly - a _week_.

“Louis,” he babbles. “Louis, Lou, ‘m gonna come, what are you gonna do, it’s your jacket, I can’t -”

Louis shushes him, open mouth pressed to his jaw, and he uses his other hand to dig through the pockets of his jacket, fishes out a handful of crumpled napkins left over from their train ride from Venice. Convenient, that. He drops the napkins on Harry’s stomach, then slides his hand under the coat with the other, cups it over the head of Harry’s dick and speeds up his strokes, flick of the wrist, thumb over the head, until Harry’s entire body is shaking and he’s arching back, away from Louis’ body and into Louis’ grip, body taut as a bowstring and mouth slack as he comes over Louis’ fist and the palm of his other hand.

He slumps back into Louis, thighs trembling with the force of his orgasm, and he drops his head back against Louis’ shoulder, slightly hysterical laughter bubbling up in his chest as Louis calmly wipes his hands with the napkins, then drops them onto the floor.

“Fuck,” Harry whispers. “ _Fuck._ ” He twists around to glare at Louis as he reaches under the jacket to do up his jeans. “You’re insane, you know that? You’re actually insane.”

Louis just shrugs, entirely too pleased with himself to care about the consequences, had they been caught. When Harry settles back down, much more relaxed and incredibly sleepy once more, he feels Louis hard against the small of his back and frowns.

“Hey, what about you?”

Louis shakes his head as Harry tries to twist a hand between them, folds their hands together over Harry’s stomach and murmurs, “I’m alright. I think that’s enough delinquency for one night, Harold.”

At Harry’s look of protest, Louis drops a quick, soft kiss to his mouth and says, “You can get me back in Athens.” He reaches one hand up, swipes his thumb over Harry’s bottom lip. “I’ve big plans for this mouth of yours.”

 

~~

 

They get to Athens just as the sun is setting, sky a hazy purple, and the air is warm and sticky with humidity. They check in to their hostel and drop off their bags, then wander around Plaka for a bit before finding a place to eat dinner. There’s a decent enough breeze that they decide to sit outside at a small wooden table underneath a lantern so that everything is dim and quiet.

“I think this is the most excited I’ve been for food this entire trip,” Harry says as he squints down at the menu.

“Why? Are you that hungry? We could have stopped sooner, you idiot.”

“No, I’m alright. I just really love Greek food.” Harry looks up so he can smile at Louis. “They use all the best fruits and vegetables.”

Louis wrinkles his nose. “Vegetables. Oh god, everything’s going to have _olives_ in it.”

“Not everything, here.” Harry leans over toward Louis’ menu so he can point at the pastitsio. “It’s kind of like... a stratified lasagne. But with Mediterranean spices.”

They order food and local beer, pick at the little bowl of pickled vegetables and the plate of pita and hummus the waitress had set on the table for them until their food arrives. It’s nice out, not too crowded, and Harry scoots his chair closer to Louis’ so that he can drape his arm across the back of Louis’ chair and lean into him. Louis responds immediately, hooking his leg over Harry’s knee, and he doesn’t move when their food arrives.

“Do you want some tzatziki sauce?”

Harry tips the little bowl of it toward Louis.

Louis scrunches up his nose. “Ew, no, cucumbers are the worst.”

“What,” Harry gasps, scandalized. “Tzatziki is like, the basis of Greek food, you can’t hate it and like Greek food at the same time, Lou.”

Louis laughs and kicks out at Harry’s ankle with his other foot. “You are so full of shit. I’m eating Greek food right now,” he says, demonstrating by shoving a heaping forkful of pastitsio into his mouth. He widens his eyes and smiles at Harry around the food. “Mmmm, delicious. And no cucumbers.”

“Whatever,” Harry shrugs. “There’s tzatziki all over my gyro, so good luck getting a taste of it.”

Louis swallows his food and leers at Harry, says, voice pitched low and filthy, “Oh, I plan on getting a taste of your gyro, alright.”

“Oh my god.” Harry drops his head into his hand and scoots his chair away a few inches, so that Louis’ foot drops to the ground. “You are the _worst_ , why do I even associate with you.”

Louis shrugs and waits until Harry has looked up again before swiping his finger through the bowl of hummus at the center of the table and sucking it into his mouth, tongue curling deliberately around his knuckle before saying, “I'm hilarious."

"Just for that," Harry announces, "you are sleeping alone tonight."

"Hey! Not fair, I was never told that was a rule! I demand a recount!"

There's a pause while Harry stares at Louis, confused and amused and a little bit dumbfounded.

"You are such an idiot," he murmurs, but his tone is fond and his eyes are soft, and he reaches out under the table, hooks his foot around Louis' ankle, and drags him close again.

 

~~

 

The next day, while Harry and Louis are walking to the bus stop to catch a bus to the old Olympic stadium, Harry insists on stopping in a store so that he can buy a copy of Edith Hamilton's Mythology.

After a visit to Panathinaikou Stadium, they catch the bus back into town and walk to the Acropolis. They spend the rest of the day at the Acropolis and Filopappou Hill, and at every temple they visit, Harry reads a story about the God that temple is dedicated to. Louis makes a face when Harry first suggests it, standing just outside the Temple of Athena Nike, but Harry widens his eyes and bites down on his bottom lip, and Louis sighs in defeat. Harry thinks he enjoys the stories in the end, but he knows Louis won’t admit it.

“Okay,” Harry says as they’re walking from Filopappou Hill back to the hostel. It’s evening; the sun is just beginning to set, the air cooling off, and Harry swings their clasped hands between them. “When we get back, put on your tightest trousers.” He leans over a bit so he can glance down at their feet. “And maybe some real shoes.”

Louis squints up at Harry and says, tone suspicious, “Why?”

Harry shrugs, an attempt at being nonchalant, but he can’t stop the grin from spreading across his face and he gives up, sings quietly, “I’m gonna take you to a gay bar.” When Louis’ eyebrows wing up, he bites his lip and says, “I mean, if you want to, of course.”

Louis presses in close and murmurs, “Well, that depends. Are you going to let me suck you off in the toilets?”

Harry swallows, flustered, and it’s audible despite the rush of traffic around them. He only hesitates a moment before nodding quickly, and Louis smirks.

“Well, alright then. Party jeans it is.”

The walk to Gazi takes them past the Acropolis again, and it’s beautiful at night, temples lit up from within so that the columns glow against their inky blue backdrop.

Unlike Nice, Harry is utterly relaxed as he and Louis walk into one of the clubs dotting the district. It’s dark and loud and crowded, as any club should be, and Harry lets Louis convince him to take several shots of something electric blue before dragging him out onto the dance floor.

True to his word, Louis’ jeans are sinfully tight, and as soon as they’ve shoved their way a few feet into the crowd of dancers, Harry spins around so Louis' chest is pressed to his back and his bum is nestled against Louis' lap. He slides his hands over the backs of Louis’ thighs, denim rough against his palms, and smiles when he feels his muscles flex against his fingers.

They dance for a while, until the alcohol is thrumming pleasantly through Harry’s veins, music pounding in his temples, wrists, at the base of his spine. Louis is warm and firm against him, the beads of sweat sliding down his neck visible in the flash of lights from overhead, and, thoughts too blurry to think twice about it, Harry tips his head back and licks a stripe up the back of Louis’ neck.

He feels Louis’ sharp inhale against his back, buries a smile in the side of Louis’ neck and then carefully sinks his teeth into the skin exposed by the stretched out neck of his t-shirt. Louis’ head drops back, and Harry takes it as an invitation to drag his teeth over the column of his neck, the vibrations of Louis’ moan against his lips sliding straight to his cock.

Louis cups a hand around the back of Harry’s head, fingers buried in the sweat-damp curls, and dips his head so he can press his mouth to his ear. Harry shivers at the drag of lips over his earlobe, and Louis flicks his tongue out over it before murmuring, “Bathroom?”

Harry doesn’t even bother answering, just wraps a hand around Louis’ wrist and pulls him through the crowd and toward the back of the bar. There’s only one other person in the toilet, and he doesn’t even look up when they burst through the door, doesn’t seem to notice when they crowd into the same stall, giggling and whispering nonsense into each others’ shoulders.

Louis doesn’t bother with pretenses, doesn’t even pause for a kiss before shoving Harry back against the wall of the stall and dropping to his knees. Harry blows out an unsteady breath, the muscles in his belly jumping when Louis shoves a hand up under his shirt to pet at the skin over his hip. He looks fucking ridiculous like this, gorgeous, with his hair gelled up into a wilting quiff, eyes like blue ice in the dim lighting of the bathroom. His lips are already stained red from chewing on them while they danced, and the muscles of his thighs are bulging against the tight material of his jeans. Harry wants to put his hands on Louis’ legs, feel those muscles under his fingers - is rather desperate to, actually, but for now he’s going to let Louis have his way.

Louis’ hand slides down from Harry’s hip to cup the outline of his erection, palm warm through the denim, and Harry’s head falls back against the tiles when Louis’ squeezes, sparks over his skin, whimpers when he lets go.

“Shh,” Louis murmurs from his crouch, and Harry bites down on his bottom lip while Louis tugs at the fly of his jeans, popping the button and sliding the zip down with a slow drag of his finger in the vee of it, the very tip brushing the underside of Harry’s cock. Harry trembles, tries desperately not to make any noise as Louis deliberately trails his thumb over his dick while dragging his jeans and pants down to his knees.

He nearly breathes out a sigh of relief when one of Louis’ hands finally wraps around the base of his cock, but chokes on the sigh when Louis wastes no time in fitting his mouth around the tip, tight wet heat and the flat of his tongue swiping over the head. Harry reaches out for Louis’ hair instinctively, stops half-way there and flexes his fingers in midair.

Louis pulls off just long enough to murmur, “You can touch,” before ducking back in, and heat crawls up Harry’s spine. Louis closes his mouth around the head of Harry’s cock again and sinks down slowly, flattening his tongue along the underside as he goes. Harry doesn’t hesitate again, tips his chin down against his chest so he can see his fingers slide into Louis’ hair, slightly stiff with gel but soft and cool against his hands. He doesn’t want to guide Louis, just needs an anchor, flattens his palms against Louis’ scalp and just holds on.

It doesn’t take long, the delicious heat of Louis’ mouth and the obscene stretch of his lips around Harry’s dick enough to have his orgasm curling in the pit of his stomach within minutes. Harry bites his lip as Louis slides off, flicks a gaze up at Harry and licks his lips, then sinks down again, taking him deeper and deeper, until Harry can feel the head of his cock hit the back of Louis’ throat. He lets out a strangled moan, tries to warn Louis that he’s close, but then Louis swallows around him, the muscles in his throat constricting around the head of Harry’s cock, and he tips over the edge, body curling down around Louis’ head as he comes so hard his legs nearly give out.

He slumps back against the wall, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath, and when he looks down, Louis is leaning back and swiping a finger over the corner of his mouth. He looks fucked out, cheeks flushed, lips red, and eyes glassy, and Harry whimpers, then remembers that he’s just come in his mouth without warning and whispers, “Oh god, that was. Sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to -”

But Louis pushes to his feet, dragging Harry’s pants and jeans back up his thighs as he goes, and crowds up against him.

“Shut up,” Louis murmurs, then he’s kissing Harry and licking into his mouth, hot and filthy, and Harry moans, hands closing around Louis’ hips and dragging him even closer. He can taste himself on Louis’ tongue, can feel Louis hard against his thigh, and he slides a hand between them, fumbles Louis’ trousers open one-handed and tugs him out of his pants.

Harry breaks the kiss so he can grin at Louis and say, “Now, don’t get anything on me, we just did laundry.”

Louis smacks at his shoulder, but there’s no heat behind it, and he drops his head, forehead pressed to Harry’s chest so he can watch Harry’s hand twisting around his cock. Harry can feel the muscles in Louis’ stomach contracting against his wrist on every stroke, can hear Louis’ breath stutter every time he slides his thumb over the head, and he tightens his grip, then drags Louis back up into a kiss, sucks his tongue into his mouth and doesn’t let go until he can feel Louis’ muscles tensing, fingertips digging into his biceps, and then Louis sinks his teeth into Harry’s bottom lip and spills over his fist with a soft gasp.

Harry cleans them up while Louis catches his breath, back pressed to the wall. Harry can feel Louis’ eyes on him as he flushes the toilet paper, and he turns to meet Louis’ gaze with a smile.

“C’mere,” Louis murmurs, crooking a finger at him, so Harry shuffles forward, feet framing Louis’, and kisses him softly, Louis’ head tipped back against the wall and palms flat against Harry’s chest.

“You’re well fit,” Louis whispers when Harry pulls back, and as Harry laughs, Louis turns to unlock the stall door and usher him out. He smacks Harry's bum as he walks past, grins when Harry turns to wink at him over his shoulder.

“Right back at’cha.”

 

~~

 

On Saturday, Harry and Louis go back to the Acropolis, then walk to the Temple of Olympian Zeus and up to Mount Likavitos for a panoramic shot of Athens and a photo of the two of them, Athens spread out in the background like a postcard.

They take a day trip down to Vouliagmeni on Sunday. The hot springs that fill the lake are a clear green and mineral-rich, and they swim for hours, chasing each other around the roped-in area of the lake, sneaking kisses in plain view of the beach, holding hands while they float quietly across the water. Before heading back to Athens, they lie on beach loungers for a bit, soaking up the sun and reveling in the cool breeze coming down from the mountains and skating off the water.

Louis falls asleep the moment the bus rolls out of the station, draped over Harry’s lap, his back a steep arch that looks mildly uncomfortable. Harry traces the knobs of his spine absently as he watches the sun sink lower in the sky, a ball of orange fire reflecting off the rippling blue surface of the Mediterranean. They don’t even eat dinner that night, too exhausted from swimming and sun, and they crawl into Louis’ bed smelling of sweat and lakewater and pass out.

  
  


Monday dawns grey and humid, clouds heavy with rain. They dig their ponchos out for the walk to the Temple of Hephaestus, sit huddled together on the floor of the ruins while Harry reads from his book.

“From morn to noon he fell,” he murmurs, voice soft so it won’t carry to the other tourists wandering the temple. “From noon to dewy eve, a summer’s day, and with the setting sun dropt from the zenith like a falling star, on Lemnos, the Aegean isle.”

Harry frowns down at the book, and Louis hums thoughtfully as he stares up at the friezes carved above the columns, depicting the battle between the Centaurs and the Lapiths.

“The gods were quite shallow, weren’t they, tossing Hephaestus out on his bum just because he was ugly.”

Harry shrugs, the thick plastic of his poncho shifting over his shoulders and sending droplets of water flying. “He got to marry Aphrodite, though, so I think he did alright in the end.”

Louis snorts and shakes his head at Harry. “You’re not much deeper than those gods, then, are you Styles.”

Harry just smiles serenely as he tucks the book away, then reaches for Louis’ hand, fingers spread while he waits for Louis to slide their palms together and lace their fingers. They finish their tour of the temple, then do a bit of shopping in Monastiraki. After lunch, they walk to the Agora, then back to Plaka for a stroll down Adrianou Street. It’s not nearly as busy on a rainy day, streets dark and slick, air close and heavy, and they duck into a restaurant for an early dinner, light spilling invitingly out the windows.

It’s cool and lively in the restaurant, and they drink some wine with dinner and share a slab of baklava. By the time they’re done eating, the rain has stopped, and Louis turns to Harry out on the damp sidewalk, a hopeful tilt to his mouth.

“What’s up, Lou?”

“I was reading in the guidebook about a movie theatre. It’s an outdoor theatre, literally down the street from our hostel, it’s supposed to be really lovely. D’you want to go see a movie? I’ll buy you some popcorn and let you hold my hand.”

Harry bites his lip around a smile and says, voice soft and syrup-slow, “Louis Tomlinson, are you asking me out on a date?”

He can see Louis’ cheeks flush faintly in the light from the street lamps, and his smile breaks free, cheeks dimpling and eyes crinkling with the force of it. Louis is blushing and scuffing the toe of his trainer against the ground, and Harry feels light and warm and buoyantly happy and he has to actively stop himself from bundling Louis up into a hug right then and there.

“Maybe,” Louis hedges, and Harry giggles, reaches out and punches Louis’ shoulder lightly.

“Of course, you idiot.”

Louis looks up, eyes wide, his own smile stretching across his face, and he reaches out to grasp Harry’s wrist, stroke his thumb over the underside. “Yeah?”

“ _Yes._ ” Harry turns his hand, slides it out of Louis’ grasp so he can tangle their fingers. “You don’t have to buy me popcorn, though.”

Louis frowns as they start walking back toward their hostel. “But then who would I have to steal from after the movie’s started?”

Harry gasps in mock outrage. “I knew you had ulterior motives!”

“More than one,” Louis says, waggling his eyebrows suggestively, and Harry laughs.

“Sorry, love, but I don’t put out on the first date.”

 

~~

 

Their last day in Athens is spent on a quick visit to the Arch of Hadrian, followed by a walk through the National Gardens. They walk back to Adrianou Street for lunch, then pick their bags up from the hostel and catch a bus to the train station.

“Bye, Athens,” Harry says sadly as he peers out the bus window. He can just see the columns of the Parthenon as they pull out of central Athens, breath fogging the glass as he sighs.

“Cheer up, buttercup,” Louis chirps, poking a finger into Harry’s ribs. “Next stop Vienna. Get excited for schnitzel and rugelach!”

“I feel like I didn’t consume enough tzatziki to properly appreciate Greece,” Harry says with another sigh, but he lets Louis draw him in with an arm around his shoulders, nuzzles up under Louis’ chin.

It’s an awkward fit, with Harry’s satchel and jacket on his lap, and Louis’ backpack on his, but Louis smells wonderful, like coconut and rain, and he’s warm and solid and lovely, fingers stroking up and down Harry’s arm, and they have a twenty-eight hour train ride ahead of them to mourn the loss of souvlaki.

“Twenty eight hours,” Louis groans, as if he’d been reading Harry’s mind.

Harry straightens up, but Louis doesn’t drop his arm, just cups his hand around Harry’s far shoulder.

“Don’t even think about touching my dick on this train ride, Tomlinson, or I won’t touch yours for the rest of this vacation.”

Louis gasps. “Well that’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?”

“I mean it,” Harry warns.

“But what if we just lock ourselves in the toilet? It’s not quite the mile high club, but -”

“ _No_.” Harry cocks his head, amusement and exasperation curling the corners of his mouth. “How did you even survive the first three weeks of this trip?”

Louis presses his lips together, then says, one corner of his mouth quirked up into a smirk, “It was... hard.”

“Oh my god.” Harry shoves Louis away from him with a hand on his face, and Louis leans into the touch briefly before licking a stripe up his palm. “Is this going to be a thing for you? Making horrible puns at the beginning and end of a trip?”

Louis shrugs, eyes far off as he thinks about it.

“I dunno,” he muses. “I hadn’t thought of it.” He slides a sly gaze over to Harry. “But I have a twenty eight hour train ride to come up with some, now. Thanks for the suggestion, Haz.”

“Oh, no, I’ve created a monster.”

Louis laughs, and Harry watches, confused, as he shoves his backpack and coat onto the floor and twists around in the seat so he can climb over Harry’s lap, straddling his thighs. Harry’s hands settle, startled, on Louis’ knees just as an older woman sitting behind them leans forward to tell Louis he’s not supposed to be sitting like that. Louis just flips her off over Harry’s shoulder and ducks his head to nuzzle the side of Harry’s nose.

“You love it,” he murmurs against the curve of Harry’s jaw. “Don’t front, I can _tell_.”

“Whatever,” Harry says dismissively, but he slides his hands up Louis’ thighs and around to settle on his bum. “I’m just in it for the sex, honestly.”

They both ignore the outraged gasp coming from the woman behind them as Harry tilts his head and covers Louis’ mouth with his own. They get to the train station just in time to check in and board, spend the first half hour of the ride curled up on the seats, Louis facing Harry between his splayed legs, kissing without any real intent. Harry doesn’t think about tzatziki once the entire ride. (He does, however, follow Louis to the toilet in the middle of hour fifteen, where they throw the latch and rut against each other lazily, pressing muffled moans into cotton stretched across shoulders, before cleaning themselves up, stumbling back to their seats and sleeping the rest of the way.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As alwayssss, feedback is appreciated!  (I do not know why the end note from chapter 1 keeps popping up, sorry for that obnoxiousness, I do not know how to make it go away! Ao3, why do you confound me.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is un-betad, so. I've read over it like three times, but if you catch any glaring typos, please let me know!
> 
> _you come beating like moth’s wings_  
>  spastic and violently  
> whipping me into a storm  
> shaking me down to the core

It’s pouring down rain when the train arrives in Vienna, so even though it’s not a long walk, Harry and Louis decide to grab a taxi to the hostel.

Vienna is overcast, sky crowded with heavy gray clouds so that it’s impossible to tell where the sun is positioned, but just light enough to know that it hasn’t yet set. The city is damp, the air humid and close, rain casting a sheen over the streets and buildings so that everything glimmers in the dim gray light, passing cars and umbrella-wielding pedestrians reflected on the wet concrete.

Their hostel is crawling with tourists happy to escape the rain and a distracting mixture of accents, the bar visible over a half-wall decorated in vibrant red to counter the dim, intimate lighting. The girl working the front desk is Australian, overly perky in an attempt to spite the weather, and she hands them each a key to one of the dorms with a cheerful smile. It’s a bit disorienting, being on solid ground after nearly twenty-nine hours on a moving train, and Harry has to hold on to the handrail as they climb the stairs so he doesn’t topple over.

“Shot bottom bunk,” Louis crows as he shoves open the door to the dormitory, and Harry sighs, shoulders slumping with defeat. Louis rolls his eyes at Harry as he tosses his bag onto the bed. “Oh, come off it, babe, like you’re going to do any sleeping in your own bed anyway.”

“I dunno,” Harry says, studying the narrow wooden beds doubtfully. “These beds are kind of small.”

“We can make it work,” Louis says, then he squints at Harry, a sly little grin working its way across his face. “After all, I want a piece of that wienerschnitzel.”

“I hate you,” Harry says with a groan.

“You don’t,” Louis counters as he approaches him, looking smug. He sidles up to Harry, loops his arms around Harry’s neck and rubs the tips of their noses together, murmurs, “Not even a little bit.”

Harry rolls his eyes, even as amusement curls the corners of his mouth and fondness creeps up his spine. He settles his hands on Louis’ hips and nudges their mouths together, a close-mouthed kiss, so simple and intimately sweet that it makes Harry’s heart flutter.

“I’m too tired to go find proper food. Let’s eat at the bar downstairs.”

Louis sighs and puts on a show of rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. “If we must. You are such a heathen.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Harry promises, voice pitched low as he rubs his lips over Louis’ again. He keeps his eyes open so he can see Louis’ reaction to his words, the meaning underneath them clear from his gravelly tone.

Louis grins and nips at Harry’s bottom lip, eyes darkening as he processes Harry’s words.

“Oh, _really_.”

“Really, really,” Harry agrees, and he flicks his tongue out, swipes it over Louis’ bottom lip before stepping back with a smack to Louis’ bum and a wink. “Come on, I’m hungry. I need to store up some energy for later.”

Louis’ smile widens and he follows Harry toward the door, says happily, “I like where this is going.”

 

An hour later, bellies full of cheap bar food, Harry drags Louis up the stairs by his hand and ushers him into the dormitory. “Get your shower gear.”

“Oh?” Louis cocks his head, tone intrigued.

There’s a private bathroom in their dormitory, standing blissfully empty, bright and shiny and clean, and Harry flips the lock behind them, anticipation curling deliciously in his belly as he watches Louis set his bag on the counter by the sink and hang his towel on a hook next to the shower.

“You know,” Harry says conversationally as he and Louis strip off. “You mentioned big plans for my mouth, but you never followed through.”

Louis straightens from where he’s bent over, tugging his shorts off over his feet. Harry smiles, slow and easy, eyes hooded as he steps out of his pants and moves to turn on the shower. Once he’s got it going, he turns back to look at Louis, slides the tip of his tongue along his bottom lip in invitation.

“Shit,” Louis breathes.

He just stands there staring dumbly at Harry, even after Harry has stepped backward into the shower, so, with a roll of his eyes, Harry reaches out, grabs hold of Louis’ wrist, and drags him into the stall.

The glass walls have fogged up from the heat of the shower, and Harry lets the water slide over him until his hair is plastered to his forehead, then leans back against the wall, juts his hips out in blatant invitation while Louis steps under the spray.

Louis deliberately turns away with a mutter of, “You are horrible.” He aims a glare at Harry over his shoulder. “Let me at least wash my hair first, you insatiable minx.”

Harry shrugs, then slides a hand down his own chest to curl a loose fist around his half-hard cock, giving it a few lazy tugs. “Suit yourself.”

“Fuck,” Louis curses as he turns back around, eyes locked on the slide of Harry’s hand. He reaches a hand out seemingly unconsciously, eyes unfocused, then pauses halfway and squints suspiciously at Harry. “ _Hey_ , I believe I was promised something.”

His eyes drop to Harry’s mouth, and Harry lets out a little laugh, beckons Louis over with a crook of his finger. “C’mere, then.”

Louis steps out of the spray, and Harry reaches out, wraps a hand around the back of Louis’ neck and tugs him forward into a kiss, water-slick lips sliding together easily. He licks into Louis’ mouth, curls their tongues together briefly before easing back. He can feel Louis, already fully hard, against his hip, slides a hand down to squeeze his hip before pushing Louis back a step and dropping slowly to his knees.

Louis’s gaze follows him down, eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted, breathing already thick in anticipation. Eyes locked on Louis’, Harry closes his hands around Louis’ knees, slides them slowly up his legs until his thumbs are pressed to the junctures of his thighs. Louis is panting, the sound of it swallowed up by the steam filling the room, and there’s a pretty pink flush spreading from his cheeks down over his chest.

“God, look at you,” Harry murmurs as he slides one hand over and wraps it around the base of Louis’ cock. He gives it a few loose tugs, watches the way Louis sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, hands curling uselessly into fists at his sides. “And I haven’t even gotten my mouth on you yet.”

“Then do it already,” Louis bites out, and Harry lets out a little chuckle. Louis opens his mouth to speak again, but Harry doesn’t give him a chance, parts his lips and sucks the head of his cock into his mouth so that whatever Louis had been about to say turns into a stream of babbled curses as he slaps his hands against the shower wall and curls down over the top of Harry’s head.

Louis keeps up a steady stream of curses as Harry tongues at the slit, fits his lips snugly around the head and eases down over his cock, tongue flattened along the underside as he goes. Harry loves giving head - is fucking _good_ at it, and he pulls out all of the stops as he goes down on Louis, cheeks hollowing as he slides off slowly, swirling his tongue around the tip. He keeps his eyes trained on Louis’ face as he swallows him back down, relaxes his jaw and breathes in sharply through his nose as he takes him deeper and deeper, until he can feel the head of Louis’ cock hit the back of his throat.

“Oh, fuck,” Louis groans, and he pulls a hand off the wall, presses the tips of his fingers to the hollow of Harry’s cheek so that he can feel the slide of his own dick in and out of Harry’s mouth, slips them down to the corner of Harry’s mouth where the skin is pulled tight, lips stretched obscenely around him.

“God,” Louis breathes. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

Satisfaction curls, loose and warm, in Harry’s chest, and his eyelashes flutter with the compliment. He twists his hand around the base of Louis’ cock in response, slips it down to cup his balls, then back to slide the pad of his finger over Louis’ rim. Louis lets out another string of curses at that, hips jerking forward, and Harry swallows reflexively around him.

“Fuck,” Louis bites off. “Fuck fuck fuck, I can’t -” He swallows thickly, the sound of it loud in the close space, bites his lip, then says, voice hesitant, “Can I...?”

Harry just looks up at him, blinks his question and waits for Louis to do whatever it is he’s thinking of doing. Louis only hesitates a moment, then slides both hands into Harry’s hair, fingers closing around locks of it in a loose grip. Pleased, Harry hums in encouragement, waits for Louis to tighten his grip and focuses on relaxing his jaw so that Louis can fuck into his mouth.

Louis starts slowly, shallow little thrusts, and Harry curls his tongue around the underside eagerly, urges him on with hands wrapped around the backs of his thighs. With a little nod, Louis pushes in deeper, until the head of his cock is nudging the back of Harry’s throat. Harry sinks lower on his knees and tips his head back for an easier slide.

“Jesus,” Louis whispers, voice reverent as his gaze flicks between Harry’s eyes, slightly unfocused and pupils blown wide so that they’re ringed only by a thin green band, and where his cock is disappearing into Harry’s mouth. He keeps one hand in Harry’s hair, slides the other back down to press a thumb into the corner of Harry’s lips.

Harry’s eyelids flutter as the rough pads of Louis’ fingers trail over his cheek and the taut stretch of his lips, hums in his throat as Louis’ thrusts start to get erratic, breathing labored and filling the small room with the sound of it reverberating off the tiles.

“Can I -” Louis chokes out, and Harry gives a minute nod, fingers tightening around the backs of his thighs in anticipation. Louis thrusts once, twice, into Harry’s mouth, little bursts of noise falling from his lips as his cock hits the back of Harry’s throat, and when he thrusts again, hips stuttering and fingers tightening in Harry’s hair, Harry swallows around him, lashes fluttering again when Louis cries out, and he feels Louis spill down the back of his throat.

Louis holds himself still, knees locked and palms flat against the sides of Harry’s head as his entire body trembles with his orgasm, and Harry waits him out, thumbs stroking the outsides of Louis’ thighs, eyes on his’ face as he waits patiently for Louis to come down and ease back. When he does, Harry curls his tongue against the corner of his mouth, lips pleasantly numb, before pushing shakily to his feet.

“Oh my God,” Louis breathes out as Harry straightens and leans back against the wall, wraps a hand around his own painfully hard dick and gives it a few quick strokes to ease some of the urgency tightening his gut.

“Was it worth the wait?” Harry’s voice is rough, fucked out, and he can’t help a little self-satisfied smirk at the way Louis’ eyes go even darker. Louis gives a sharp nod as he steps forward, and Harry rasps, “Well, do I get a reward?”

He drops his gaze pointedly to where he’s fisting his own cock, and Louis nods again, reaches out and knocks Harry’s hand away. It’s doesn’t take much, just a handful of sharp, tight tugs until Harry’s own orgasm is skipping up his spine, toes curling down into the floor and palms flattening against the tiles behind him. He throws his head back against the wall as he comes, fingers pressed into the dips between tiles as Louis strokes him through it, murmuring barely audible praise against his collarbone.

He slumps back into the wall, limbs loose and heavy, and when he opens his eyes, he sees Louis smiling at him as he lifts his hand to his mouth, flicks his tongue out and licks a bit of Harry’s come off his finger. Harry’s brain goes fuzzy at that, a weak bolt of lust sparking low in his belly, and he reaches out, drags Louis against him and into a kiss.

“You’re filthy,” he murmurs against Louis’ mouth. He can feel Louis’ lips curl into a grin against his own, pulls him into another drawn-out, lazy kiss before easing back and dropping his hands to his sides.

“Okay,” Harry croaks out. Louis just watches him, expression happy and hazy, body utterly relaxed. “Okay,” Harry repeats. “Let’s wash up.”

They shampoo their hair in comfortable silence, scrub the travel off themselves until their skin is raw and shiny and clean, then stumble out of the shower and into the densely foggy bathroom.

“You have a lot of tattoos,” Louis muses as they towel off, and Harry laughs, shakes his head so beads of water go flying.

“You’re just noticing? Lou, we’ve been traveling together for over a month and a half. We gone to the beach together. You’ve literally seen me shirtless dozens of times.”

“No, I mean I noticed, but like. At first, I wasn’t really supposed to notice, and then I didn’t want you to know I had noticed, and then it just... never came up.”

He steps closer to that he can trail the tips of his fingers over the fanned out tail of one of the birds, down the sloping curve of its wing.

“These are nice,” Louis says quietly, eyes a soft, hazy blue as they trace the outlines of the birds and brush over the smattering of tattoos on Harry’s bicep, and Harry has to remind himself to breathe. “This one, however,” he says, tapping a finger over the butterfly, “is a bit ridiculous.”

Harry shrugs, rubs his hand over the butterfly, then looks up at Louis through his lashes. “‘Least I don’t have anyone’s name tattooed on my arse."

“There is always that,” Louis concedes.

By the time they’ve dried off and pulled on clean pants, the fog has started to dissipate a bit, though it’s still humid in the little room, Harry’s hair curling wildly with it.

“Lemme check if the coast is clear,” Harry murmurs, and he unlocks the door, pokes his head out. There’s only one other person in the room, already in bed with their back to the bathroom door, so Harry waves Louis out. They tiptoe across the cold tiles, drape their wet towels over the bars of the top bunk, then slip into the bottom bed together.

It’s a tight fit, the mattress just a bit too narrow, but Harry turns on his side facing away from Louis so that Louis can curl around his back, knees tucked up behind Harry’s and one arm draped over his side, palm flat against Harry’s chest. He feels Louis’ lips brush the back of his neck, and Harry turns his face into the pillow to hide his smile, even though he knows no one can see him, waits until he can control himself before rolling his head back so he can see Louis out the corner of his eye.

“Night, Lou,” he whispers into the dark room.

Louis shifts up onto an elbow, fingers pressing into the still-damp skin of Harry’s chest, so he can brush a kiss over the corner of his mouth. Louis murmurs, “Night, love,” against the curve of his jaw, settles back down and traces his fingers absently over the top of Harry’s chest.

Harry tries to suppress the little shiver that rolls down his spine at the way the pads of Louis’ drag against the birds inked there, curls his hands into fists and tucks them up under his chin.  He’s just dozing off when he feels Louis’ hand smooth down his chest and settle high on his torso, fingers splayed over the butterfly, falls asleep with a pleased little smirk curling the edges of his lips.

~~

Harry wakes up with the sun, soft gray light filtering in around the edges of the curtains and painting the room in a soft glow. Everyone is still sleeping around them, the room filled with the soft sounds of their slow, steady breathing. Harry can feel Louis’ forehead pressed to the nape of his neck, warm, even puffs of air between his shoulder blades.

Their schedule for the day is easy, not quite the hectic pace of previous cities, so he lets Louis rest for a couple more hours, sliding in and out of sleep as the room wakes up around them. By the time Harry’s ready to get up, they’re the only ones left in there, and the room is a bit brighter, the sun higher in the sky, pressing eagerly against the backs of the curtains.

He turns around in the loose bracket of Louis’ arm and throws one leg over his hip as he nudges Louis’ cheek with his nose and nips lightly at the curve of his cheekbone.

“Lou,” he murmurs into the stubble-rough skin of his jaw. “Louuuuuuu.”

Louis lets out a growl and turns his face into the pillow in an attempt to get away from Harry, but Harry just chases after him, dotting the side of his face with kisses between repeats of his name.

“Ugh, Harry,” Louis grumbles into the pillow, and Harry grins against his cheek, then flick his tongue out and licks a stripe up the side of it. Louis squawks in indignation and rolls over, scrubbing his palm over his face. Harry presses a giggle into the pillow, then climbs on top of Louis, legs bracketing his thighs.

“Morning!”

Louis pokes a finger into Harry’s dimple, eyes bleary as he stares up at him balefully.

“You are entirely too chipper of a morning.”

Harry shrugs and strokes his thumb over Louis’ temple as he looks down at him. He’s got red pillow creases across his left cheek, his eyes are only half-open, a hazy gray in the dim lighting of the room, and his lips are pale, pushed out into a pout that Harry wants to kiss off of his ridiculously pretty face.

“Places to go, people to see,” he intones as he tries not to give in to his urge. They’ve just woken up, probably taste disgustingly stale.

“Ugh. You sound like my nan.”

A filthy grin spreads across Harry’s face and he says, “Well, that brings the events of last night into question. I mean, d’you kiss your nan with that mouth?”

“Oh my god,” Louis groans, horror coloring his voice, and Harry barks out a laugh, then ducks his head to nuzzle up under Louis’ chin.

He lets his lips drag against Louis’ skin as he says, “C’mon, babe, we’ve got things to do.”

He feels Louis shiver under him, moves to climb off, but before he can, Louis reaches up and fists a hand in his hair, murmurs, “You’re such a fucking tease,” then drags him down into a kiss.

They do taste sleep-stale, but Harry doesn’t really care, and Louis doesn’t seem to, either. They kiss slowly, sliding their tongues together and nipping at each others’ lips playfully, until Harry pulls back with an exaggerated smacking noise and makes a show of licking his lips. He grins wide when Louis slides a hand down his back and over his bum, humming appreciatively, then climbs off of Louis and slips out of the bed.

“Shit,” he hisses as his feet hit the tile floor. He hops in place, bouncing from foot to foot. “Floor’s fucking freezing.”

When he looks back over at bed, Louis is watching him, eyes wide and lips pursed in a pleading pout.

“No,” Harry says, shaking his head. He backs away from the bed, then walks deliberately over to the window and away from their duffel bags. “No way. If I have to suffer, so do you, Tomlinson.” He pulls the edge of a curtain back, then sighs. “It’s sunny, but it’s still raining.”

Even though he’s busy staring out at the wet street, Harry can hear the frown in Louis’ voice when he says, “What are the chances I can convince you to stay in bed all day?”

Harry turns away from the window, letting the curtain fall back into place, and smiles over at Louis. He’s still in bed, blankets bunched up around his hips, skin golden even in the dimly lit room. “Nice try, Lou. You won’t melt, come on. Let’s get dressed and find some breakfast. I require tea.”

 

Poncho hoods pulled over their heads and hands cupped protectively over steaming travel cups of English Breakfast, Harry and Louis make their way to Stadtpark. Despite the gloom of the day, the flowers are in bloom, bright and cheery, petals weighed down by heavy droplets of rain. They sip their tea as they walk slowly from monument to monument, before crossing over the Vienna River and riding the underground for a few blocks, bringing them close to the Hundertwasserhaus.

“Good grief,” Louis states as they walk up to the building.

“Wow,” Harry agrees. The facade is a patchwork of colors, each color block demarcated by bold, curving lines. The colors stand out in sharp relief against the gray backdrop of the sky, and there’s lush green ivy creeping across from the right corner of the building.

“You know, this makes me grateful for my boring old red brick flat.”

Harry slants a look at Louis. “You wouldn’t want to live in a piece of art?”

Louis scrunches up his nose as he studies the little Juliet balconies dotting the side of the building.

“I’m not sure I’d want to live in a tourist attraction.  And what if I didn’t like the color my flat was painted?”

Harry snorts. “You don’t have to live outside the building, Lou. I’m sure you can do whatever you please to the inside.”

Louis shrugs and says, voice prim, “It’s the principle of the matter, isn’t it?”

 

After Hundertwasserhaus, they catch the underground back toward the park and a few stops past, then get off at Stephansplatz. They spend the rest of the day at the square, touring St. Stephen’s Cathedral and shopping along the side streets until the hazy summer sun starts to set. It had stopped raining halfway through shopping, spitting down when they entered a store advertising genuine Viennese handicraft, and completely clear when they exited.

Ponchos rolled up and tucked into their bags, Harry and Louis catch the underground again, across the Danube to Praterstern. As they stumble out of the subway station, they can see the Reisenrad ferris wheel a block over, lit up against the slowly darkening sky.

Naturally, there’s a queue, and Harry and Louis entertain themselves by people-watching. The amusement park is crawling with tourists, even this late in the evening - families and couples and clusters of friends skipping from ride to ride and chatting happily, laughter ringing out across the fairground.

“Hey.” Louis nudges Harry as they approach the front of the queue. Harry peels his eyes away from a young couple walking around with a baby girl dressed in a frilly pink dress, her eyes wide and locked on the slowly spinning lights of the ferris wheel. “D’you reckon they’d let us on the carousel?”

Harry cranes his neck, looking for it. “How do you know they have one?”

Louis shrugs. “Isn’t there always a carousel at places like this?”

“Maybe, I dunno,” Harry says faintly, already distracted as they come up to the front of the line. He grabs Louis’ hand and tugs him forward. “Come on, we’re up.”

They clamber into a car with a handful of strangers and step over to the windows. Harry sets his bags down at their feet so he can crowd up behind Louis and wrap his arms around him, and Louis tips his head back onto Harry’s shoulder, smiles up at him as the car lurches forward, rising slowly off the ground.

“Good second date,” Louis murmurs as they rise slowly into the sky.

“ _Best_ second date,” Harry corrects, then presses a smile into the top of Louis’ shoulder as he looks out at the city laid out in front of them, sun setting behind the buildings. The air is thick with humidity, so that everything seems to glow and waver a bit in the orange haze of sunset. He tightens his grip on Louis’ waist, turns his face into the side of Louis’ neck when he folds his arms down over Harry’s.

“Best second date _ever_ ,” Louis agrees belatedly.

~~

Friday morning, Harry slips down to the front desk and buys drinks, sandwiches, and a few bags of crisps, tucks them into his satchel before waking Louis up. They take a bus up to Kahlenberg for panoramic views of Vienna, walk slowly through the Vienna Woods toward Leopoldsberg to check out the old church, then loop back around toward Kahlenberg for a picnic in a little clearing behind a cafe buried in the woods. They round out the afternoon by walking down toward the Cobenzl winery, hands clasped and swinging between them.

They’re hot and sweaty by the time they get to Cobenzl, shirts sticking to their damp skin, and Louis huffs out a weary breath as they come to a stop in front of the cafe, swipes the back of his hand across his forehead and turns an accusatory glare on Harry.

Harry bites his lip as Louis stares him down. He looks so adorable, cheeks flushed with exertion, despite the fact that they’ve been walking downhill for the past hour. His fringe is lying limp across his forehead and his shirt is nearly see-through, plastered to his body like a second skin.

“Only you,” Louis says gruffly. “Only you could get me to do this much exercise.”

He rubs his cheek down over his own shoulder to soak up the beads of sweat sliding down his temple, and Harry grins widely, unable to help it.

“What,” Louis grouses.

Harry cups a hand over his mouth to stifle a giggle. “I’m sorry, you just look so fit.”

Before Louis can retort, Harry whips a hand out and drags Louis in by his wrist.

“Haz, no,” Louis protests, hands flat against Harry’s chest as he tries to strain away. “It’s too hot!”

“Oh, quit complaining,” Harry says simply, and he tugs Louis against him. They’re completely disgusting, sweat drying on their skin and clothes so they’re tacky with it, but Harry wraps his arms around Louis’ neck regardless, slides his nose across Louis’ damp cheekbone and licks at a bead of sweat slipping down his temple.

“Gross,” Louis complains, but he cups Harry’s hips anyway and turns his head so their mouths meet.

They only kiss for a moment, the sun beating down on the backs of their necks as they stand in the middle of the sidewalk, then Harry pulls back and says, “Come on, let’s go lie down in the shade and rehydrate.”

There’s a cluster of trees close to the winery, on the other side of the car park, and Harry and Louis stretch out side by side in the grass to cool off, passing a water bottle back and forth between them. The sounds of visitors are faint, the low rumble of cars as they pull in and out of the car park and the light chatter of people as they walk to and from the winery and the cafe muffled by the trees surrounding them. They lie in the shade until the sun starts to set behind the mountains, casting long shadows like fingers across the grass, then they struggle to their feet and head to the cafe for dinner.

The bus ride back into town is uncomfortable, bellies full and clothes stiff with dried sweat, and they shuck their clothes the moment they get back to the room and crowd into the shower together in their eagerness to be clean.

Harry’s in the middle of rinsing the shampoo out of his hair, head tipped back and eyes shut as he drags his fingers through his sudsy tangle of hair, when Louis plasters himself to Harry’s side and rubs his cheek against his chest. Louis’ fingers slot easily into the dips between Harry’s ribs, skin slip-sliding on skin, his other hand coming up to trace lightly over the ink on his stomach, and Harry’s lips curve up into a rueful smile. He reaches one hand down to pat blindly at Louis’ shoulder.

“I really don’t think I have it in me, Lou, sorry.”

He can feel the rumble of Louis’ laugh against his side, the puffs of breath down his chest.

“Please, I could barely get up the energy to put my arms around you.” He rubs his cheek against Harry’s skin again, murmurs, “I just wanted a hug.”

“That I can do.”

Hair soap-free, Harry drops his arms to curl around Louis’ shoulders, tilts his head to rest his cheek on top of Louis’. The warm water streams down over them, running in rivulets down their bodies and dragging the lingering soap bubbles down the drain in the floor. Harry watches condensation form on the tile walls, beads of water growing too heavy to stay suspended against the porcelain and sliding slowly toward the ground, catching in the grooves between the tiles as they go.

It’s mesmerizing, watching the water droplets form and fall, and with Louis warm and solid against him, Harry feels drowsiness pulling at his eyelids, his limbs, until his arms feel heavy and waterlogged and he can barely keep his eyes open. He slides one hand up to cup the back of Louis’ head, scratching at his scalp for a moment, then draws back slowly.

Louis looks just as sleepy, eyes only half-open, and Harry smiles, rubs his thumb gently across one of his eyelids, then reaches back to shut off the shower.

“Come on, let’s go to sleep,” he murmurs, an odd, tinny quality to his voice in the porcelain-lined stall without the sound of running water to muffle it.

Back in the dorm, it’s almost too much, bending over to shuffle through his bag for a pair of clean pants, and Harry groans as he straightens up, complains, “I sound like an old man.”

“I _feel_ like an old man,” Louis counters, fist in the small of his back as he comes around the side of the bed after hanging up his towel.

“You are an old man,” Harry says with a smile, and Louis frowns, reaches out to punch Harry in the shoulder but falls short, arm flopping uselessly against his side.

“Ugh. I can’t even work up the energy to properly punch you. I am never hiking again,” Louis declares as he crawls into bed and presses himself back against the wall. He stares out at Harry, expression stubborn and tone challenging. “You can’t make me.”

“Don’t worry,” Harry mumbles as he climbs in after Louis, lets Louis pull the sheets up over them. “After today, I think I’m done with nature walks.”

“Good.”

Louis rolls onto his back and lifts his arm, waits for Harry to settle against his side. Harry pillows his head on Louis’ chest, turns his face into it and smiles when Louis wraps his arm down around Harry’s shoulders and squeezes. Harry feels him sigh, breath ruffling his hair, then Louis slurs sleepily, “What’re we doin’ tomorrow?”

Harry frowns in thought, watches his fingers as he traces shapes over Louis’ stomach. “Um. Museums, I think. Stuff inside the Ringstrasse.”

“No more hills?”

Harry grins, digs the tips of his fingers into Louis’ side and presses a laugh into his chest when his whole body twitches.

“No more hills,” he confirms.

“Good.” Louis’ voice is little more than a whisper, and Harry lets his eyes slip shut as he feels Louis’ hand slide up the side of his neck. He feels Louis’ fingers burrow into his hair, lets the steady thumping of Louis’ heart under his cheek and the absent stroke of fingers through his curls tip him over into sleep.

~~

Saturday is spent wandering the inner city. It’s raining again, air thick and hazy as they spend an hour at St. Peter’s Church, then walk to the Globe Museum. The museum is wonderful, and Harry and Louis wander from exhibit to exhibit, reading about the history of globes and methods of globe-making. To Harry’s surprise, Louis doesn’t get bored halfway through, is enjoying the museum just as much as he is.

The exhibits are beautiful and varied. There are globes and maps of the world, globes of the moon and the constellations, and beautifully intricate orreries and tellurians that tick like clocks in their glass cases.

Harry splays his fingers against the side of a case housing a particularly elaborate orrery, each planet made of a different semi-precious stone that gleams under the spotlights as they move in tiny increments around a crystal sun.

“I want one,” Harry breathes out, reverent. The glass fogs up with his words, and he lifts his other hand to wipe off the condensation, unwilling to look away from the little machine.

He feels Louis’ hand settle in the small of his back, Louis’ chin hook over his shoulder. When Louis speaks, his words vibrate against Harry’s ear.

“I don’t think you could afford it, mate.”

Harry pushes his bottom lip out into a pout, slides a sideways look at Louis. “Buy me one?”

Louis laughs, too loud in the small room, and says, “I _definitely_ couldn’t afford one.” He slides his hand around to squeeze Harry’s hip. “Sorry, babe. Maybe in a few years, when I’m rich and famous and can afford to buy extravagant gifts.”

Nerves and pleasure flutter in Harry’s belly. He’s not sure Louis even realizes what he’s just said, that he’s implied he wants to keep seeing Harry after they get back to England. He decides not to mention it, instead focuses on -

“Wait, I thought you’re studying to be a drama _teacher_?”

Louis shrugs, drops his chin so he can press a kiss to the top of Harry’s shoulder. His breath seeps through the thin cotton of Harry’s shirt when he says, “Teacher to the stars, then.”

“Right,” Harry hums, amused.

Louis pulls back with a pat to Harry’s hip.

“Come on, Magellan. Let’s move on.”

 

After the Globe Museum, they walk through the Hofburg Gardens, then to the Natural History Museum. They take turns posing with the dinosaurs, camera angled so it looks like they’re about to be eaten or trampled, spend over an hour just on the second floor wandering through the diversity exhibits, then visit the special exhibits.

“Oh no,” Louis whispers as they step into Body World. He squints at a figure just to the right of the entrance. “What _is_ that?”

Harry stares at the grotesque figure of a man in the middle of a running stride, pink muscles and long white tendons on display. “I think they’re plastinated bodies.” He turns to Louis, eyes wide. “How did we not realize what this was when we bought the tickets?”

Louis shakes his head quickly, backing out of the room. “Can we leave? I don’t want to see this. Nightmares, Haz.”

He reaches out blindly for Harry, circles Harry’s wrist with his fingers and tugs insistently, his eyes locked on the body of a pregnant woman, her stomach cut open to reveal a plastinated fetus.

“We need to leave. Right now.”

Harry lets Louis lead him back out of the exhibit, scrubs his free hand over his face and shakes his head.

“Why would anyone...” Louis trails off and glares down at the museum ticket he’d dug out of his pocket. “I can’t even read what this says.”

Harry watches a family of four walk toward the exhibit. They’re a young couple, their children look no older than ten, and Harry experiences a moment of panic, has to tamp down on the urge to call out to them, stop them from walking into the room.

“Those children are going to be scarred for life,” he murmurs to Louis sadly.

Louis presses his fingers into his eyes and says, “Can we go do something to help get those visuals out of my head?”

“Yeah, of course. Let’s just go walk around the Ringstrasse. Maybe it’s stopped raining.”

They push their way out of the museum and onto the street. The rain has slowed to a drizzle - lighter than before, but enough for the boys to tug their ponchos back on.

“What even _was_ that,” Louis says as they turn onto the Ringstrasse.

“Plastination,” Harry repeats. At Louis’ quizzical look, he thinks back to what he remembers of it from the traveling exhibit that had made a stop at the Natural History Museum in London. It hadn’t been _quite_ as horrifying as this one. “They dehydrate a body, fill it with acetone, then replace the acetone with a polymer of some sort. Like, silicone or something. It preserves all of the cells so they don’t deteriorate.”

They stop at an intersection to let cars pass.

“How do you know that,” Louis asks, staring up at Harry with raised eyebrows.

Harry shrugs, scratches the back of his neck.

“I read about it at the museum in London once.”

Louis smiles and shakes his head, lifts up onto his toes so he can wrap one arm around Harry’s neck and brush a kiss over his mouth, then murmur, lips dragging against Harry’s, “My brilliant boyfriend.”

They both freeze, not realizing that the ‘walk now’ light is flashing. Louis pulls back slowly, eyes wide, and Harry can’t even hear the traffic rushing by over the roaring in his ears, can’t feel the way they’re being jostled by other pedestrians trying to get around them. He can see Louis’ Adam’s apple bob nervously when he swallows, has to swallow around the sudden lump in his own throat.

“I didn’t...” Louis trails off, an edge of panic seeping into his voice. “I didn’t mean.”

He darts his gaze away, a flush coloring his cheeks, and Harry drops his own eyes to the damp sidewalk. He’s not really sure what he’s feeling. There had been a momentary thrill at Louis’ words, followed by surprise, and then disappointment when Louis drew away. He _definitely_ doesn’t know what to say, isn’t even sure what the right thing to say would be. Should he tell Louis he doesn’t mind if he calls him his boyfriend? Should he reassure Louis that he knows that they’re not? He thinks the latter might be the right choice, but when he opens his mouth to say so, the words stick in his throat and he closes it with a click of his teeth.

They stand there awkwardly for a few minutes, Louis looking everywhere but at Harry, while Harry steals quick glances at his still-red face. Finally, he hears the traffic noises change, glances over and sees that the walk light is flashing again and says, voice soft and hesitant, “Should we...?”

Louis nods quickly, still not looking at Harry, and they set off across the street. They walk the Ringstrasse quickly and in silence, barely even looking at the buildings around them and not bothering to venture down any side streets. They stroll quietly along the bank of the Danube, the rain pattering softly against the plastic of their ponchos loud in the awkward silence, then curve around toward the Stadtpark. Once they get to Karlsplatz, Harry clears his throat, waits for Louis to jerk his head up at the sound, then gestures for them to turn left toward their hostel.

The atmosphere back at the hostel is even weirder, the stilted silence ringing out across the dormitory as they shed their ponchos and damp shoes. Harry clears his throat again and, for reasons he can’t figure out, whispers, “Want to eat downstairs?”

Louis nods, still not looking at Harry, and follows him out the door and down to the bar. Dinner is terribly awkward, the two of them eating quietly while conversations in a handful of different languages swirl around them.

By the time they’re done and climbing the stairs back up to their room, Harry is uncomfortable, itching to say or do _something_ , but Louis looks miserable as he sits down on his bed and starts tugging at the wet hems of his jeans, and Harry isn’t sure what to say or do to fix it.

“‘M gonna go shower,” he mumbles in the end, doesn’t wait for Louis to acknowledge the statement before grabbing his towel and his toiletry bag and trudging toward the bathroom.

He takes his time in the shower, washing his hair and his body slowly and letting the hot water ease the tension that’s settled into his muscles. He’s going to wait it out, he decides. Louis can’t wallow forever. Probably.

By the time he’s done, towel slung low on his hips as he pads quietly across the dormitory, Louis is already in bed with his back to the room, the blankets pulled up around his ears. Harry studies the lines of his body underneath the sheets, the way the blankets dip at his waist and fall in pleats around the backs of his knees. He considers getting into bed with Louis anyway as he pulls a pair of pants on, then decides to give Louis his space, climbs up into the top bunk for the first time since they arrived in Vienna.

He’s not sure how long he lies there, staring blankly at the wall, but it feels like hours. He’s finally drifting off to sleep when he hears the ladder creak and feels the mattress dip, flips over in bed just in time to see Louis knee across it and flop down onto his side facing Harry.

“Hi,” Harry whispers, unsure. He’s careful to keep his hands to himself, keep his legs stretched out so he doesn’t touch Louis before he’s ready.

“Hi,” Louis says back, just as soft. His breath still smells like the schnitzel and beer he’d had for dinner.

Harry draws in a quiet breath when Louis reaches a hand out and curves it around the side of his neck. He prays Louis can’t feel the way his heart is racing under his fingers, prays he can’t hear the pounding of it in the resounding silence of the room.

“Look, I.” Louis pauses, sucks his top lip into his mouth as he considers his words. It’s dark in the room, Louis’ eyes just inky smudges of shadow. Harry can’t tell where he’s looking, and it’s disorienting, makes him a bit nervous. “I didn’t mean to say... that. Earlier.”

Harry nods once, not sure how to respond.

“It was just a. A slip of the tongue,” Louis finishes lamely.

Harry presses his lips together, unsure of whether he should be relieved or disappointed by Louis’ excuse.

“Right,” he whispers, the word and his tone deliberately vague and noncommittal.

“I mean,” Louis continues, “we’re practically on a couple’s vacation. It’s only natural.”

Harry nods again, presses his lips together against the disappointment curling in his chest.

“Only natural,” he parrots quietly. He feels Louis’ thumb stroke over the edge of his jaw.

“Look, can we just forget I said anything?”

Harry swallows, sure that Louis can feel it against his palm, but he can’t help it.

“Okay,” he whispers reluctantly. “Sure.”

“Good,” Louis murmurs, the blurry outline of his shoulders sagging with what might be relief. There’s a pause, his thumb still brushing over Harry’s skin, then he says, “Are we okay?”

Harry shuts his eyes for a moment to collect himself, then opens them and nods again. “Yeah, we’re okay.”

“Good,” Louis repeats, and then he shifts forward and covers Harry’s mouth with his own. Harry can feel the flutter of Louis’ eyelashes against his cheekbones, parts his lips for Louis and lets him take charge.

Louis doesn’t waste time, shifts over so that he’s blanketing Harry’s body. He reaches down and pushes Harry’s legs apart so he can settle between them, props himself up on his elbows so he can look down at Harry’s face. Harry knows it’s too dark for him to see properly, thinks maybe he can make out the vague outline of his features, but he keeps his expression impassive as he lets Louis look anyway.

Louis swipes his thumbs across Harry’s cheekbones, drags them down the soft skin of his temples and nestles them up underneath the corners of his jaw, uses them to tip Harry’s head back, then dips his head and mouths at Harry’s neck.

Harry sighs and lets his eyes slide shut, curves his hands around Louis’ sides and does his best to shut his brain off and just enjoy this. Louis is lovely and soft above him, his weight pressing Harry’s body into the mattress, heat seeping through the thin layer of sheets between them. Their hips are perfectly aligned, and Harry can feel Louis, half-hard against him. He lifts one leg, drapes it over the back of Louis’ thigh and rocks up against him.

Louis hums his response against Harry’s collarbone, rolls his hips down as he closes his mouth over the knob of bone and works on sucking a bruise into Harry’s skin. Harry lets his head fall back against the pillow, chin tipped up toward the ceiling, and drags his hands slowly up and down Louis’ back.

Humming softly, so the sound vibrates against Louis’ lips, Harry rocks up again, his own dick now a hard line against Louis’. He uses his leg wrapped around the back of Louis’ knee and his other foot, flat on the mattress, as leverage, drags Louis up into a kiss when he pulls away from his collarbone and rubs a thumb over the bruise.

Their kiss turns from deep and filthy to a distracted brush of lips as they rut against each other, the wooden bed frame creaking quietly with the rocking of their hips. As their movements get more frantic, Louis drops his face into the crook of Harry’s neck, breath panting out, hot and damp, against his skin.

“Lou,” Harry murmurs desperately, pleasure coiling up his spine and crawling up into his throat until his teeth ache, and he drops his leg back onto the mattress so he can get better leverage, palms Louis’ ass as his orgasm sparks in the pit of his belly and curls down his limbs, fingers and toes tingling with it. “Please.”

Louis shifts up onto his elbows so he can blink down at Harry in the darkness, grinds down hard, his toes scrabbling against slick sheets, and Harry comes with a huff of breath, sinks his teeth into his bottom lip as his toes curl down into the mattress and his fingers press against the dip of Louis’ spine with bruising force.

He vaguely registers that Louis’ gone still against him through the haze blanketing his mind as he comes down, can feel the stutter of Louis’ hips against his own and hear the soft gasp pressed into his shoulder as Louis shakes apart against him. He strokes his hands up Louis’ back, soothing quietly as Louis slumps against him, his breathing harsh as he mouths absently at the side of Harry’s neck.

Once Harry’s heart rate has slowed and Louis’ breathing has evened out, Harry eases his head to the side and lifts it so he can peer down their bodies.

“I think,” he says slowly, voice blurry with sleepiness, “we need to move back to your bed.” He drops his head back onto the pillow and adds, “And maybe put on some new pants.”

Louis laughs weakly against Harry’s shoulder, then rolls off of him gracelessly.

“Definitely,” he agrees.

Harry winces as he follows Louis down the ladder, pants uncomfortably sticky.

“D’you think we should rinse them off?”

Louis throws a look over his shoulder, gauges the distance from their bed to the bathroom, then turns back to Harry, says decisively, “No. We can do laundry in Prague.”

Harry ducks his head, smiles down at his bag as he sifts through it in search of another pair of pants. Even though it grosses him out to do so, he peels his pants off and drapes his them over the rail of the top bunk to dry, then steps into the clean pants and waits for Louis to get in bed before crawling in after him.

Louis fits himself around Harry immediately, spooning up behind him and tucking his chin down over Harry’s shoulder.

“‘S a good thing our roommates are party animals,” Louis muses, lips dragging against the shell of Harry’s ear.

Harry chuckles into the pillow.

“Yeah, I don’t think they would’ve appreciated walking in on two blokes getting off with each other. Not really in the fine print, is it.”

Louis hums, tilts his head to press his lips to the curve of Harry’s jaw.

“Aquarium tomorrow, right?”

Harry purses his lips as he tries to call up their schedule. “Yeah, I think so. Belvedere Palace and the aquarium.”

“Yay,” Louis says, voice already slurred with sleep.

Harry shifts back against him, closes his hand over Louis’ where it’s splayed over his belly and slots his fingers down between Louis’.

“Yay.”

~~

Harry and Louis spend Sunday morning at Belvedere, walking through the Upper and Lower Palaces, followed by the Orangery and the Palace Gardens. It’s breathtaking, the ornate carvings of the pillars and staircases, the high, arching ceilings and the intricate artwork that covers them. Harry’s heels click against the floors of the empty rooms as they walk, weaving their way through the clusters of visitors. Though they look at and speak to each other, they don’t hold hands, barely even touch each other, still a bit unsure after the awkwardness of the previous day. Every time Harry reaches out to touch Louis without thinking, he drops his hand as he suddenly remembers, a frown turning the corners of his lips down and discomfort curling in his belly.

After Belvedere, they walk to the Aqua Terra Zoo. The aquarium is lovely, brimming with interesting creatures and beautiful exhibits, fish like brightly colored gems as they wander through the building, and somewhere between the Mediterranean exhibit and the rainforest, Louis slips his hand into Harry’s and twines their fingers together.

~~

Their last day in Vienna is spent at Schonbrunn, walking through the palace, its extensive gardens, and the attached zoo. It takes them the entire morning, the place entirely too massive to squeeze into just a couple of hours, and Harry is glad they had gone shopping on their first day in town when the visit takes them right up to the time they need to head to the train station.

After stopping back at the hostel, bundled into a cab with their bags squeezed between their knees as the driver winds through the city, Harry reaches out and pokes Louis.

“Hey, we need to find a post office in Prague. And a computer with internet, I haven’t emailed my mum since Athens.”

He punctuates each word with a poke and a smile, happy that the weird tension between them has started to dissipate, and Louis nods, says, “Of course,” then grabs Harry’s fingers to stop him.

“Hey.” Harry waits for Louis to look at him, strokes his thumb over the back of Louis’ hand. “We’re back to short train rides.”

“Thank God,” Louis says happily. “I don’t think my bum could handle another twenty-eight hour ride.”

“I dunno,” Harry muses. “I reckon you’ve got enough padding.”

Louis’ jaw drops in shock, and Harry grins cheekily at him, proud of himself for the remark. But then Louis is shoving his bag off his knees and launching himself at Harry, fingers digging into his ribs viciously.

Harry tries to fend him off, laughing hysterically, pants out, “I meant me! I meant _me_ , oh my God, stop!”

“What are you talking about,” Louis asks, still tickling him mercilessly.

“You sat in my lap, I was your padding! Please, Louis,” Harry wheezes, trying fruitlessly to push Louis away. His stomach and lungs ache from laughing, and he feels like he’s about to pee his pants. “Lou, I’m gonna piss my pants!”

“Would serve you right!”

But Louis relents, flopping back into his own seat just as the cab pulls up in front of the train station. The driver swivels around to glare at them while they stumble out onto the sidewalk, and Harry gives him a decent tip as an apology, shakes his head as the driver rolls the window up too slowly to muffle the sound of his tirade.

“Good thing we don’t understand what he's saying,” Louis muses as they watch the taxi peel away from the curb.

Harry smiles and pats Louis on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s go get seats.”

~~

It’s cool in Prague, the air humid and close, and Harry sucks in a lungful of fresh air as they step out of the train station. The train had taken just over four hours, much better than the one from Athens to Vienna, but someone sitting near them had smelled strongly of cabbage and dirty socks.

Harry lifts his arm so he can smell his shirt, wrinkles his nose as he looks up at Louis.

“I think we need to do laundry ASAP.”

They heft their bags onto their shoulders and start the short trek to the subway station.

“Does it make me a bad person for being tempted to spray my entire can of deodorant on that man?” Louis asks.

Harry shakes his head vehemently.

“No, absolutely not. He smelled vile.”

The subway station is dark, lit by harsh overhead fluorescents that make the backs of Harry’s eyes sting. Louis burrows into his side as soon as they set their bags down to wait for the train, and Harry tips his head over, cheek pressed to the top of Louis’, and shuts his eyes, hums softly while they wait.

The train pulls in a few minutes later with a whoosh of hot air. As they drag their bags onto the nearly empty subway car, Louis intones, “Mind the gap.”

Harry rolls his eyes and digs an elbow into Louis’ side. “Terrible.”

“I know,” Louis sighs. “Not even a little bit clever, that. I must be more tired than I thought.”

It takes less than ten minutes to get to their target station, another five from the station to their hostel, and Harry tugs the door open excitedly, waves Louis forward to check them in. It hasn’t been a busy day, really, but the more time passes, the more the exhaustion piles up. It might have something to do with not having had a proper lunch, Harry thinks. His stomach gives an answering growl at that thought, and he looks around to see if there’s a bar, like at their hostel in Vienna, sighs in disappointment when all he sees is a lounge.

As if she knows exactly what he’s looking for, the woman behind the desk smiles at Harry as she hands Louis a form to sign and says, “There’s a restaurant just outside.”

She points to the left of the building and gives Harry a thumbs up, and Harry smiles at her in thanks, taps Louis on the elbow.

“You hungry?”

“Starved,” Louis says as he looks up from the form. “Famished. Withering away.”

“Alright,” Harry laughs, and he bends down to pick up his duffel as the woman slides two keys across the desk with another smile.

The dormitory is small and spare, narrow single beds lined up along the walls. Harry tosses his bag onto one of them, then turns to Louis, fidgeting impatiently.

“Did you want to wash up, or...?”

“God, no,” Louis responds. “I’m fucking starving, let’s _go_.”

 

After dinner, they force themselves to stay up long enough to seek out a laundromat, then send off quick, short emails to their mums in the lounge of the hostel before trudging back up the stairs to their room.

 

The first night in Prague is uncomfortable, their first night sleeping in separate beds since Rome. The beds are narrow, though, even more so than in Vienna, and when Louis holds the covers up for Harry to slip in, Harry eyes the small sliver of mattress skeptically.

“I don’t know, Lou, it looks too small. I think I’ll sleep in my own bed while we’re here.”

Louis makes a soft sound of protest, so Harry knees onto the mattress, bends over Louis and kisses him, soft and slow. He pulls back reluctantly as the door to the room creaks open, slides back off the bed and pads over to his own with a little wave at the guy that’s just walked in.

Harry sleeps terribly. He tosses and turns, even the small bed too much space after getting so used to sharing a twin with Louis the last few weeks.

Louis wakes before him the next morning, hair an absolute disaster as he tiptoes across the room and drapes himself over Harry. Harry groans when he feels Louis nosing at the cut of his jaw, tries to push him off with a hand flattened against his face, but Louis just licks between his fingers, and when Harry drops his hand, uses the opportunity to duck in for a quick, close-mouthed kiss.

“Morning sunshine,” he murmurs against Harry’s temple, and Harry groans again.

“Rubbish.” He sniffles sleepily, rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Slept horribly.”

“Aww,” Louis coos, and he drags the tip of his finger down the bridge of Harry’s nose. Harry cracks one eye open, blinks blearily up at Louis.

“You?”

Louis shrugs. “Nah, probably got like two hours total, but it’s like a nap, right?”

“Not really,” Harry says slowly, baffled by Louis’ chipper attitude. “What is wrong with you? You’re never this cheerful of a morning. Who are you, and what have you done with my Louis?”

Louis shrugs again, a soft smile stealing across his face.

“Prague is pretty. _You’re_ pretty. I’m excited.” He bounces a little, so the springs underneath the mattress groan in protest. “Come on, babe, let’s get up. We’ll get some caffeine into you, yeah?”

“ _Please_ , yes.”

Harry waits for Louis to slide off him, takes the proffered hand and lets Louis drag him to his feet. He sways dangerously once he’s stood up, weariness making him a bit dizzy.

“Oh, babe,” Louis croons. “Come on, let’s get dressed and get some food in you.”

They find a cafe a few blocks over, stuff themselves full of tea and pastries while they sit outside on the terrace, basking in the summer sun and the cool breeze. Feeling decidedly better with food in his belly and caffeine swimming through his veins, Harry pulls a map from the hostel out of his bag and navigates their way to the Dancing House.

It’s an odd building, the left column of it appearing as though it’s bowing toward the right, and it makes Harry a bit dizzy to look at.

“Why,” Louis questions. “Why would someone build that?”

Harry pulls his travel guide out of his bag, flips it open to the section on Prague, and reads off, “It’s called a deconstructivist style. Says it’s supposed to represent yin and yang, when the country was transitioning from a communist regime to a democracy.”

He turns to look at Louis, eyebrows raised. Louis tilts his head to the side and squints one eye shut as he studies the building.

“Nope. Still doesn’t look like a yin yang to me. Sorry...” He cranes his neck to peer down at the book, still open in Harry’s hands. “Frank Gehry. You tried.”

Harry takes a photo anyway, for posterity, then another one of the two of them in front of it. Afterward, they walk along the Vltava River toward the Old Town Square. They spend a couple of hours wandering the area before crossing over the Charles Bridge to the Lesser Quarter. The bridge is crowded with buskers playing guitars and trumpets and even one violin, as well as painters and vendors selling handmade wares and touristy items, like snapbacks and t-shirts and shot glasses, and they take their time crossing, enjoying the busy scene.

They spend the rest of the afternoon in the Lesser Quarter, wandering the various churches and the Wallenstein Palace, then start back toward the hostel as the sun is setting. They pass over a different bridge on the way back, one further along the river that connects to Shooter’s Island in the center.

“Hey.” Harry tugs on Louis hand as they approach the stairs leading down to the little island. “Let’s sit and watch the sunset.”

The island is mostly empty of visitors at this hour, only a few locals walking their dogs and one other couple sitting on a bench facing the west bank of the river. Louis picks a bench a few minutes’ walk from the bridge, where the view is unobstructed by trees. The sound of traffic is distant on the little island, the only noises coming from the barking of dogs and the quacking of ducks paddling across the water.

It’s peaceful in their spot, the air cool around them, and the sunset is beautiful, painting the clouds a spectacular array of oranges and pinks and purples as it slides toward the roofs of the buildings. Louis settles against Harry’s side as the sun slips behind them, draws Harry’s arm around his own shoulder and hums happily when Harry turns to press a kiss to his forehead.

They sit on the bench until the sky turns a uniform, inky blue and they’re shivering in their jumpers, then they climb the stairs to the bridge and walk back to the hostel. Along the way, they find a restaurant that serves thick soup in hollowed out bread bowls, enormous plates of stuffed cabbage, and beer by the pint.

Stuffed fit to burst, they walk back to the hostel, feet dragging against the pavement as they struggle to digest.

“Why did you let me eat this much,” Louis hisses, both hands pressed to his belly.

“Hey, I ate just as much as you did, friend.”

Louis groans and shoves Harry with his shoulder. Not expecting it, Harry stumbles across the sidewalk, bites off a curse as he nearly falls off the curb, arms pinwheeling comically at his sides as he struggles for balance.

“Shit, sorry,” Louis says with a giggle as Harry rights himself on the sidewalk. But then he forces his expression back into a scowl, accuses, “You’re bigger than I am.”

Harry can’t even muster up the proper amount of indignation, voice falling oddly flat as he says, “Are you calling me fat?”

“Yes,” Louis deadpans. He reaches a hand out and pinches the skin over Harry’s stomach, stares pointedly down at the little bit of skin he can squeeze between his fingers. “Incredibly fat.”

Harry manages to work up a smug grin, says with a little shrug, “I work out.”

He hums LMFAO as they turn the corner onto their street, ignores Louis’ disapproving glare as he bobs his head to the beat. The girl at the desk greets them with a cheery smile and a wave, unconcerned by the way Louis is clutching his stomach and glaring at Harry.

“‘M too tired to shower,” Harry sighs as he unlocks the door to their dormitory. “That’s fine, right? It’s only been...” He thinks back, trying to remember his last shower. “Two days. I think.”

Louis shrugs, flops down onto his bed and toes his shoes off.

“We’re men. Men don’t need to shower every day.”

Harry snorts. “Right.”

They undress in relative silence, the only noise in the room the quiet sound of Harry humming _Sexy and I Know It_. He slips into his bed, rolling toward the wall automatically before realizing he’s not sharing, settles back down in the middle of the mattress with a disappointed frown and stares up at the ceiling as he asks, “D’you think it’ll be easier to sleep the second night?”

“I dunno,” he hears Louis answer from across the room. Then a moment later, Louis is saying from right beside him, one hand pressing on his shoulder as the other lifts up the blankets, “But I don’t intend on finding out. Budge over.”

“But -”

“Nope.” Louis shoves at Harry’s shoulder until he complies, rolling onto his side and scooting over so his back is pressed against the wall. “Last night was rubbish and I need my beauty sleep. My fringe suffered horribly today.”

Harry snorts, but offers Louis a happy little smile as he settles down beside him, their noses only centimeters apart on the pillow. He slides a hand over to cup Louis’ hip. “You’re very dramatic, you know that?”

Louis shrugs. “There’s a reason I want to teach drama, you know.”

They’re quiet for a while, just staring at each other from across the pillow, knees locked together underneath the blankets. Harry starts a little when he feels Louis slide cold toes over his shins, but lets Louis tuck his feet underneath his legs for warmth.

After a few minutes of silence, Harry whispers, “How’s your stomach feeling?”

Louis frowns a little, like he’s considering his response. “It’s alright. Not quite as uncomfortable as before.”

“Good,” Harry says with a nod. “Think it could handle a goodnight kiss?”

“Definitely,” Louis answers immediately, and Harry smirks.

“Yeah? You sure you don’t want to consult it first, just to make sure?”

Louis rolls his eyes and reaches a hand out to wrap around the back of Harry’s neck.

“Just bloody kiss me already, you idiot.”

Harry shifts forward on the pillow, more than happy to obey. He’s smiling into the kiss, can feel the way Louis’ mouth is curled up into a grin, as well, and happiness bubbles up in the back of his throat.

Louis opens his mouth, murmurs against Harry’s lips, “You’re not funny, you know.”

“I’m _hilarious_.”

“You’re not. You’re really, really not. You tell dad jokes. _Embarrassing_ dad jokes.”

“You like my stupid jokes,” Harry states matter-of-factly, lips still dragging against Louis’. “You _love_ my stupid jokes.”

He shifts up onto an elbow so he can pepper Louis’ face with kisses, insisting on Louis’ love for his jokes between each one.

“I don’t,” Louis protests, giggling into Harry’s shoulder as he tries to fend him off. “I don’t, I don’t! Your jokes are stupid and your _face_ is stupid!” Louis drops his hands from where they’re pressed against Harry’s chest so he can clutch his stomach, muscles cramping from laughter. Harry is still murmuring nonsense and littering kisses all over his face, hands pressed into the pillow on either side of Louis’ head, and Louis wheezes out, “Oh my god I’m going to throw up if you don’t stop, I swear it, I’ll throw up all over you and your bed!”

Harry slumps back onto the mattress, cheeks aching from smiling so hard. He turns back onto his side facing Louis and rubs a hand over Louis’ stomach. Louis’ face is red, hair mussed from Harry’s hands and from thrashing about on the pillow, and his chest is heaving from exertion. Harry bites down on his bottom lip, affection swelling in his chest until he feels like he can barely breathe from it.

“You love my jokes,” he says quietly, and Louis lets out a disbelieving laugh, rolls his eyes toward the ceiling before shifting back onto his side to face Harry.

“Fine,” he concedes, lifts a hand to shove Harry’s fringe out of his eyes. “I might like your jokes a little bit.”

Harry grins triumphantly and hisses out, “Yes!”

“But only because I can use them to make fun of you.”

“Rude,” Harry states simply, and Louis shrugs.

“That’s what you get for taking up with a sarcastic little shit.”

Harry strokes his hand up Louis’ side, then slides it down over his chest, drums his fingers over Louis’ heart. “I’ve changed my mind. I want a refund. Gonna trade you in for a better model.”

“Too late, you’ve gone past the expiry date. I’m a used product. You’re stuck with me, Styles.”

Harry ignores the painful lurch in his stomach at those words, knows Louis doesn’t mean them as anything more than a joke. He can’t help wishing, though. Determined to keep playing along, Harry schools his tone into one of exasperation.

“Well, then I guess I’ll have to make the most with what I’ve got.” He makes a show of propping himself up on an elbow and studying Louis, the hectic flush of his face, the curve of his spine, the sturdy lines of his legs. He slides his hand around to scritch at the dip of Louis' spine. “It’s not ideal, but you’ll have to do.”

“Twat,” Louis murmurs, but his eyes are soft and his tone is fond, and he reaches his hand back out to curve around Harry’s shoulder, tugs him into another kiss.

~~

On Wednesday, Harry and Louis walk through Wenceslas Square, visit the Jubilee Synagogue, then wander the Jewish Quarter. The synagogues are beautiful, the cemeteries eerie and crowded with tombstones, and Harry shivers and draws Louis close for comfort. After the Jewish Quarter, they cross over the Vltava River toward Latna Park, spend the rest of the afternoon drinking beer and sunbathing on the grass.

Once the sun starts to set, they get up and walk toward the Krizikova Fountain. They get there early enough to find a decent seat, crowd together on the bench and watch the bleachers fill around them. The show is set to the music of Queen, and the water shifts color and leaps in time with the electric guitar and Freddie Mercury’s voice, beautiful and mesmerizing, despite the bizarre selection of music.

The fountain isn’t far from the train station they had arrived at, coming from Vienna, so after the show they buy sausages from one of the street vendors surrounding the fountain, then walk back toward the subway station they had taken their first night in Prague, fingers slotted together as they walk close to ward off the chill of the evening.

~~

On Thursday, Harry and Louis climb the stairs up to the Prague Castle and St. Vitus Cathedral, then on their way back, they stroll along Nerudova Street, picking out small souvenirs for their families as they go. They stop in at the KGB Museum for an hour, then wander the castle district before heading over to grab the funicular train that transports tourists up the side of Petrin Hill.

Petrin Tower is not quite as impressive as the Eiffel Tower, but the view from the top of it is stunning, a complete, 360-degree panoramic shot of Prague laid out around them.

“What a beautiful city,” Harry murmurs, smiling when Louis rests his cheek on his shoulder.

“Yeah, I like the buildings here. They’re very... imposing.”

“Baroque. Baroque and Gothic, mostly, I think. Dramatic and intricate.”

Louis hums his agreement, then they’re silent for a few minutes, watching the city come alive as the sun sets, lights winking to life in street lamps and windows, a sprawling network of them that makes the city look like it’s glowing.

“I want goulash for dinner,” Louis states, apropos of nothing as the sky above them turns a rich, velvety blue, and Harry snorts out a laugh.

He pokes a finger into Louis stomach, says with a grin, “Having cravings, are we? You’re not pregnant, are you?”

Louis slaps his hand away. "No thanks." Then he adds, voice prim, “Plus, I’d have to have sex for that, wouldn’t I.”

Harry inclines his head. “Fair enough.” Then he turns to look down at Louis. “Are you looking to rectify that?”

Louis just blinks at him. “Don’t objectify me, Harold, it’s rude. I’m not a piece of meat, you know.”

“My name’s not _actually_ Harold, you know that, right? Anyway, I reckon I'd make the better pregnant person.”

"100%. Let's get on that. _After_ dinner, though." Louis waves a hand, then holds it out for Harry to take, tugs him toward the lift. “Come on, let’s go find me some goulash.”

~~

Friday dawns bright and sunny, air cool and breezy as they step out of the hostel and into the street. An amused tilt to his mouth, Harry watches Louis bounce up and down on the balls of his feet, all excitement and nervous energy.

“Excited, are we?”

“Yes!” Louis claps his hands together. “We saved the best for last.”

“Which do you want to do first?”

“The museum. No, the wall. Oh, I don’t care, you choose.”

They stop at the Czech Museum of Music first, get lost in the maze of rooms for hours as they browse through displays of music-related art and bizarre musical instruments, both old and new. Every room they enter brings with it a new sound, and they wander from room to room, transfixed by the cases packed full of French Horns, intricately carved Giraffe Pianos, harpsichords and bagpipes and violins.

Harry doesn’t play any musical instruments, but Louis mentions a bass guitar, sitting dormant in his flat back home, and Harry makes a mental note to sign up for lessons of some sort when he gets to uni in the fall.

Once they’ve finished with the museum, they walk back toward the river and the John Lennon Wall. The wall is crowded with tourists, but it’s easy to slip between them and approach it. It’s a dense patchwork of graffiti - lyrics and symbols and portraits of John, crowded together and overlapping each other in a senseless blur of colors and lines. They take dozens of photos, close-ups of bits of swirling text or bright colors, distance shots with one or the other of them in the foreground, fingers splayed against the painted concrete as they read off bits of text or trace the outline of a peace sign.

Harry is watching Louis drag the tips of his fingers over a cluster of multicolored flowers when he realizes they need to head back to the hostel.

He calls out, “Lou,” waits for him to turn around. “We need to go. Train’s leaving in an hour.”

Louis nods, turns to give the wall one last look before heading back to Harry. They hum bits and pieces of Beatles songs as they walk back to the hostel, hands swinging between them. They’ve got a subway to catch, then a four and a half hour train ride to Berlin.

“Did you like Prague?”

Harry looks down at Louis while he waits for his response. Louis tips his head back to smile up at Harry, eyes twinkling in the bright summer sun.

“Yeah, it was lovely. Did you?”

Harry hums in affirmation and squeezes Louis’ hand. They walk in silence for a few minutes, then Louis speaks up suddenly.

“Hey, how many coins did you throw into the Trevi Fountain?”

Harry laughs, startled by the question.

“Lou, that was _weeks_ ago.”

“Only like two,” Louis says defensively. He tugs on Harry’s hand. “Come on, tell me.”

“Nope.”

“Why not,” Louis asks, genuine curiosity coloring his voice.

“I don’t know,” Harry muses. “Coin fountains always work better when they’re left to mystery, don’t they?”

“I think that’s for wishes, not a silly thing like the number of coins you tossed.”

“It’s all tied in, though, with the Trevi.” Harry shrugs. “You won’t wheedle it out of me, you know. I’m like a Swiss vault. I’m excellent at keeping secrets.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m _mysterious_ ,” Harry says with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Louis laughs and shoves at his shoulder.

“Hardly. You’re about as mysterious as an open book.” He pauses, then says, “Do you want to know how many I threw?”

Harry just shrugs, turns to walk backwards as they approach the hostel so that he can smile serenely at Louis.

“Nope.”

Louis frowns. “Why not?”

“Because if you tell me, it won’t work _._ And anyway, it’s not important.” Louis opens his mouth to protest, but Harry continues, “If whatever you wished for comes true, that’s great. But if it doesn’t, it won’t do for me to dwell on it, or wait around for it to happen.”

Louis’ jaw snaps shut and he tilts his head, considering Harry’s logic. After a moment, he says, “I’d tell you, though. If you asked.”

Harry offers him another smile as he stops by the door to the building, tugs it open and waits for Louis to walk inside. He strokes a hand down Louis’ arm as he passes, murmurs, “That’s sweet of you, but I’m not going to. And I’m still not telling.”

 

The train to Berlin is packed, a non-stop ride that has Harry and Louis crammed into a single narrow row of seats, their bags squashed between their legs. They spend half of it mapping out their daily schedules for the city, Harry’s diary propped open on his thigh, and the other half staring out the window, Harry’s chin hooked over Louis’ shoulder as the countryside rushes past.

“Only four cities left,” Louis murmurs as he plays idly with Harry’s fingers where they’re curled down over the top of Louis’ thigh.

Harry nods, chin digging into the dip of Louis’ collarbone. Four cities, four weeks. Harry knows Louis can see his reflection in the window, tries not to let his mouth turn down into a frown despite the discontent settling, heavy, in his belly.

Four weeks. Twenty eight days, give or take.

Harry flips his hand palm-up on Louis’ thigh and tangles their fingers together, turns his head so he can brush a kiss over the side of Louis’ neck. Only four more weeks. He’s going to make them count.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only three more chapters, aah. Thank you all for your lovely kudos and feedback, it means so much to me!  (If you are curious~, I am also supernope on tumblr, come say hi!!!!)
> 
> Oh, and thank you to onewasturning for asking me about the Trevi Fountain scene, without the reminder, the bit at the end wouldn't exist. (I forgot about it completely. I suck.) And um. I have never written a blowjob from the POV of the person receiving, so I hope it, you know, worked/made sense. It was hard. (Hah.)
> 
> Also!!! I don't know if any of you guys have been googling the places I've been mentioning, but you totally should, because they are all pretty freaking awesome. Except Body World, don't google that, that shit will give you actual nightmares. (Unless you're super into science, but like. Trigger warning for, idk, the insides of bodies??? Muscles and eyeballs and stuff. Wild.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter in like, a day, so. I hope it, you know, doesn't suck. :D?
> 
>   
> _you come beating like moth’s wings_  
>  spastic and violently  
> whipping me into a storm  
> shaking me down to the core

The first thing Harry and Louis do when they get to Berlin is go to a bar. Well, the first thing they do is check in at the hostel, but the moment they’ve claimed a set of bunk beds and washed up, they catch the S-Bahn to Hops and Barley, a microbrewery only a couple of train stops from where they’re staying. They eat dinner, deliciously greasy bar food that sits heavy in their stomachs, and try all of the beers on the menu, then stumble home at half one in the morning, pleasantly buzzed and giggling into each others’ shoulders.

Louis crowds Harry into the corner of the train car and kisses him, slow and messy and tasting of tangy cider, so that by the time Harry surfaces, lips swollen and aching, brain fuzzy with alcohol and lust, they’ve gone past their stop and have to get off and catch a train going in the opposite direction. It’s nearly three by the time they get back to the hostel, and they have to clutch at each others’ hips as they try to navigate the stairs up to their dorm.

The room is dark and filled with the soft sounds of sleeping bodies, and Harry registers vaguely, in the back of his mind, that he should probably keep quiet. He tries, he really does, hand clapped over his own mouth as he trips over to his bed, unbuttoning his jeans with his other hand as he goes. By the time he falls onto the mattress, frame squeaking softly as he bounces, he’s stripped down to his pants, fingertips brushing absently, helplessly, against the half-hard line of his cock through the soft cotton of his boxer-briefs.

The room is all shadows, black velvet stretching across charcoal surfaces, so that Harry can only hear Louis, hear the whisper of fabric as he tugs off his jeans and jumper, can only feel the dip of the mattress as Louis knees onto the bed and crawls over him.

Louis settles on top of him, knees bracketing the tops of his thighs, presses his mouth to Harry’s bare shoulder and murmurs, “Hiya, love.”

Harry answers by dragging a hand through Louis’ hair, tries to draw him up into a kiss, but Louis resists, instead sinks his teeth into the pad of muscle over Harry’s chest. Harry’s entire body jerks, shock and arousal skittering over his skin so that it tingles with it. Louis licks across his chest, sucking tiny bruises into the skin until Harry’s heart is racing, dick throbbing in time with the pounding of blood through his veins.

He gasps when Louis sucks a nipple into his mouth, hips twitching against Louis’ involuntarily as he closes his teeth around it. He can feel the hard press of Louis’ dick against his own, tries desperately to rut up against him, but Louis is pinning him to the mattress with his weight.

“Louis,” he whimpers, wraps his legs around Louis’ hips and digs his heels into the small of Louis’ back. Louis shushes him with a finger pressed to his mouth, and Harry lifts his head off the pillow so he can close his lips around it, sucks desperately, scraping his teeth over the pad of his finger until Louis is cursing into the skin of his chest and grinding down viciously, sparks up Harry’s spine and wildfire through his veins.

He reaches back blindly to grip the metal bars of the bedframe as Louis rolls their hips together. The sound of their breathing is harsh in the quiet room, the mattress springs creaking softly with every thrust of Louis’ hips, and Harry would be worried about waking someone up, but he can already feel his orgasm creeping up the back of his throat, squeezing his lungs and prickling behind his eyes, and all he can think about is Louis on top of him, around him, Louis’ beautiful face and his lovely body and his sharp wit and the way he feels as he presses him into the mattress, and he comes with a shuddering gasp, back bowing with the force of it.

His legs fall to the mattress as he shudders through it, and he barely has time to register anything before Louis is scrambling up onto his knees and crawling up the bed. It only takes Harry a moment to cotton on, and he grabs at his thighs and pulls Louis forward eagerly, tucks his fingers into the waistband of his pants and yanks them down, just has time to open his mouth before Louis is wrapping a hand around the base of his cock and guiding it between Harry’s lips.

The darkness of the room is more of a hazy gray now, eyes adjusted to the lack of light, and Harry can just make out the hungry look on Louis face as he closes his lips around the head of his cock and sucks, can see the way his chest is heaving and his eyes are glittering. He redoubles his efforts, hollows his cheeks and clamps his fingers around the backs of Louis’ thighs until he’s falling forward, hands splayed on the pillow on either side of Harry’s face as he spills over Harry’s tongue and pants wildly into his hair.

Harry swallows greedily, licking over the head of Louis’ dick until he curses softly, breath rustling through Harry’s hair, then pulls away, eases back down the mattress and collapses on top of him. Harry can feel Louis’ fingers creeping up his side until they can curl around the side of his neck, thumb over his pulse point so that Louis can feel his still-racing heart. They’re both sheened in sweat and Harry’s pants are uncomfortably sticky, but he feels boneless and sated, can barely even muster up the energy to lift his hand and settle it over the back of Louis’ head. He opens his mouth to say something, he’s not really sure what, but before he gets a chance, darkness creeps up and steals him under.

~~

The first few days in Berlin pass in a rush of beautiful weather, cool and sunny and pleasantly breezy enough that Harry and Louis have to break out their jumpers.

On Saturday, they visit the Holocaust Memorial and Brandenburg Gate, spend a couple of hours at Tiergarten park, then ride the lift at Panoramapunkt for a roof-top view of Berlin, sun winking off windows as they gaze out at the city below them. They spend the rest of the day in Gendarmenmarkt, touring the cathedrals and sitting on the terrace of a cafe, feet hooked together under the table as they watch people bustle about.

Sunday is devoted to a day trip to Potsdam, with visits to the various palaces and Sanssouci Park, at the center of which stands a Chinese tea house that Harry photographs from every angle, enough pictures to fill an entire album. That night, they take time to clear the photos off Harry’s phone and send emails to their families, little summaries of the cities they’ve seen since the last round of emails and a few attached pictures.

On Monday, Harry convinces Louis to visit Museum Island. They spend the entire day on the little island, flitting from museum to museum, with a stop at the Berlin Cathedral and a break for lunch along the river. The Pergamon Museum is spectacular, stacked full of Greek, Roman, and Islamic artifacts. The life-sized reconstructions of the Altar of Zeus and the Gate of Babylon leave both of them speechless, and they wander the Altar for half an hour, fingers trailing over cool stone as they study the columns and friezes carved into swirling white marble.

They round out their day with a date at 3D, glow-in-the-dark minigolf, where they drink too much German beer and laugh so hard at Harry’s white jumper, see-through in the black lights so that all of his tattoos are visible as dark smudges against his skin, that their stomachs ache. They stop keeping score after the third hole, both of them too buzzed to see straight, especially with the 3D glasses on. Instead, they use golf as an excuse to plaster themselves to each others’ backs and grope each other under the guise of helping guide the golf club.

On their seventh hole, a psychedelic looking underwater scene depicting purple manatees and bright blue sea horses and bizarre looking trees, they take a bit too long, Harry’s hands wrapped around Louis’ on the handle of the club and Louis’ bum nestled against his groin as he wiggles back and forth and aims smirks at Harry over his shoulder. A group of young girls keeps giving them dirty looks as they wait for Harry and Louis to finish, chattering to each other in what sounds to Harry like Portuguese.

“Hey, let’s move on to the next hole,” Harry murmurs from where he’s got his chin hooked over Louis’ shoulder, mouth brushing the shell of Louis’ ear.

Louis shivers as he looks back and forth between his golf ball and the hole, trying to gauge an angle. “Why? I haven’t even putted yet.”

“I think those girls are getting cross with us.”

“Who?”

Louis straightens out of his stance and looks over at the girls, brow furrowed as they glare very obviously at him.

“Well, fuck that,” Louis says shortly, then bends back over his club. “Come on, Haz, help me out here. We’re going to hit this ball, then I’m going to snog you right here on the course and make them wait even longer. There are like four different holes in here, they’re just being ridiculous.”

Harry curls over Louis’ back obediently, closes his hands around Louis’ smaller ones and murmurs quietly to him, “Aim for that corner, I think we need to bounce it off that round bit.”

“But then it’ll hit the other round bit.”

“But it needs to,” Harry argues. “So it can go up the slide.”

Louis stretches his neck out and squints at the course. “Are you sure that’s not on the next hole?”

Harry presses a laugh into Louis’ shoulder.

“How much have you had to drink?”

“Just as much as you,” Louis grouses. “Alright, come on, let’s sink this one. Hole in one, right?”

Harry snorts, breath ruffling the bit of fringe sticking out from under Louis’ beanie. “Right.”

Louis wiggles his hips again, so Harry grinds against him, biting his lip around a smile when Louis lets out a breathy little hum, then counts them off. They hit the ball too hard, and it goes bouncing into the next course. Louis laughs so hard he slumps down over the handle of the club, and Harry cups his hand over his mouth, shaking his head and giggling at Louis’ amusement, then kicks at the sole of his shoe.

“Come on, Lou, let’s go get it. We are terrible at this game.”

He turns to move on, but Louis grabs his wrist and pulls him back, hooks the back of Harry’s neck in the crook of his elbow and yanks him in for a kiss. Harry vaguely registers a series of gasps from the group of girls, barely audible over the arousal roaring in his ears as Louis licks into his mouth eagerly, tongue insistent and tasting of beer.

They only kiss for a moment, heated but quick, then Louis pulls back with a satisfied little hum. Harry blinks down at him dazedly, and Louis grins, teeth tinted blue from the black lights.

“It’s not about how well you play, love.” He raises his voice and angles his chin toward the girls, who are looking everywhere but at Harry and Louis now. “It’s about how much fun you have whilst playing.”

~~

Tuesday is easily Harry’s favorite day in Berlin. They start their morning out at the East Side Gallery, a mile long remnant of the Berlin Wall that’s been painted over with murals. It’s early, the sun still low enough in the sky that Harry and Louis are bundled into light jackets, and there aren’t too many people around.

There are street vendors clustered around the end of the wall, and Louis stops short and taps Harry’s wrist, says, “Buy me ice cream?”

Harry raises an eyebrow at Louis, amusement curling one corner of his mouth into a lopsided smile. “Pardon?”

Louis widens his eyes and bats his eyelashes up at Harry, bright, early morning sun glinting off his irises so that they appear icy blue. “Please?”

Harry pokes Louis in the side carefully, a cup of steaming tea clutched in his hand. “You do know it’s only ten in the morning and it’s about...” He squints up at the sky, the color of bluebells with fluffy white clouds like enormous cotton balls scattered across its expanse. “Maybe seventeen degrees out?”

Louis shrugs, says matter of factly, “It’s never too cold for ice cream, Haz.”

Harry blinks at Louis for a minute while Louis just smiles up at him, the corners of his eyes folded up into little crinkles, and Harry likes him so much his chest aches with it. He ducks down, brushes a soft kiss over Louis’ lips, and murmurs, “Alright, Lou. I’ll buy you some ice cream.”

They each get a cone, piled high with a mixture of flavors, and eat as they walk the length of the wall, pausing every once in a while for a photo. Harry stops Louis twenty minutes into the walk with a hand on his elbow and ducks his head to lick a bit of ice cream that’s melted down Louis’ arm where the sleeve of his coat is pushed back, keeps his eyes on Louis’ as he drags his tongue over the skin of his forearm.

When he straightens back up, a self-satisfied smirk curving his mouth, Louis says, “Hey, that was mine.” He takes a step toward Harry and lifts up onto his toes. “Give it back.”

Then his free hand is winding its way into the hair at the base of Harry’s neck, where it’s curling around the edge of his beanie, and he’s tugging him down into a kiss. Harry hums happily as Louis licks the taste of the ice cream right out of his mouth, his own tasting of mint and chocolate; kisses him until all that’s left is Louis and Harry and the velvet slide of tongues.

“Mmm,” Louis murmurs as he drops back onto his heels. “I like the way you taste better.”

Harry snorts, ice cream completely forgotten in his hand. “Smooth, Tomlinson.”

Louis gives him a cheeky wink as he starts to walk backward along the wall.

“Play your cards right and you just might get to see a few more of my moves.”

 

After the East Side Gallery, they visit the Memorial of the Berlin Wall. By the time they leave, the sun is high in the sky, and they’ve shed layers, coats draped over arms and the ends of Louis’ trousers rolled up over his ankles. Harry turns to smile at Louis as they take a shortcut through a park, trees overhead blocking out the late morning sun.

“What’re you smiling about?”

Harry shrugs, reaches out and tangles their fingers together. “I’m just happy.”

Louis studies him for a moment as they walk along the path, eyes dark in the shade of the trees.

“Me, too.” He pauses, then says, “What else?”

Harry bites his lip around a beaming smile. “We’re going to the Ramones Museum.”

“Ah. You know, it’s funny, I wouldn’t have guessed you for a punk rock fan.”

Harry shrugs again. “I’m not, really. But it’s The Ramones, you know?”

“No,” Louis muses. “No, not really.”

Harry’s smile falters.

“Do you... do you not want to go? We don’t have to, if you don’t like -”

“Shut up, Harry, and navigate us to the museum.”

Harry stops, right on the edge of the line of trees.

“Really, Lou. You spent all day on Museum Island with me, even though you don’t like museums. We don’t have to -”

Louis cuts Harry off with his hands on Harry’s cheeks, thumbs pressed to his lips.

“If you don’t stop talking, I’m going to go see The Ramones by myself and leave you in this forest to die.”

Harry glances around.

“Lou, I hardly think this is a forest.”

Louis shakes his head and says, amusement coloring his voice, “You are such a smartass, you know that? Now come on, let’s go to the museum. Teach me about The Ramones.”

When Louis drops his hands, Harry smiles gratefully at him, then holds his arm out and says, “Here, hold my jacket for a moment.”

Louis takes the coat, watches as Harry wrestles his jumper off. He’s got a shirt on underneath, and he grins at Louis as he ties the sleeves of the jumper around his hips. Louis takes a step back.

“Oh, no. You can’t be serious?”

Harry looks down at his t-shirt, black with The Ramones logo on the chest.

“What?” He asks, confused.

“Put your jumper back on.”

“But it’s warm!”

Louis steps close again, reaches out and lays a hand against Harry’s chest. His fingers are cold, icy through the thin fabric of Harry’s shirt.

“Babe. You look like a fanatic.”

“It’s a _theme_ , Lou.” He tugs on the hem of the shirt, points at the logo with his free hand. “Ramones shirt, Ramones Museum.”

Louis sighs, holds Harry’s coat out to him.

“I’m not walking with you once we get there. We don’t know each other.”

Harry frowns down at his shirt, disappointment curling unpleasantly in his belly, and says quietly, “If it embarrasses you, I can -”

“Oh my god.”

Harry looks up, eyes wide. He can’t keep the hurt out of his voice when he says, chin tucked down against his chest defensively, “What?”

Louis just steps in and wraps his arms around Harry’s waist, burrows in against his chest and mumbles, tone both fond and exasperated, “You are pathetic. It’s like kicking a puppy or something.” He tips his head back so he can look up at Harry. “You don’t embarrass me, Jesus. Can we please go to the museum now? I’ll walk with you. I need to, anyway, so you can tell me all about the band.” He reaches up, pokes a finger into Harry’s cheek where his dimple sits, trying to coax a smile out of him. “I’ll even let you hold my hand.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but he drapes his arms around Louis’ neck, tries not to smile.

“‘M not a child, Lou.”

“Kinda feels like you are, sometimes, if I’m honest.”

“Hey!”

But Louis just lifts up onto his toes and rubs their noses together, murmurs, “My little baby,” then drops back onto his heels, steps back, and holds his hand out toward Harry, fingers wiggling as he waits for Harry to grasp it. “Come on, Haz. Teach me about seventies punk rock.”

Harry rolls his eyes and sighs exasperatedly, but he’s pretty sure it comes out more fond than annoyed. He takes Louis’ hand, threads their fingers together and pulls Louis close as they fall into step beside each other, emerging out onto the street.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

Louis shrugs, tightens his grip on Harry’s fingers. “I’ve been told, once or twice.”

 

After the Ramones Museum, they catch the S-Bahn out to the Botanical Gardens. The gardens are enormous, acres of sculptural trees, neatly trimmed hedges, brightly colored flowers, and grasses with fluffy inflorescences nearly as tall as Louis. There is a row of towering greenhouses lining one side of the park, each one filled with themed plants ranging from ferns and palm trees to carnivorous plants to cactuses of all shapes and sizes, and ponds lined with massive water lilies that curl up at the edges and look like they could hold the weight of a human being. The rest of the park is laid out by region, and on one end is a lake coated in a fine film of pale algae and dotted with ducks, carving paths through the green as they paddle about.

Despite the line of people waiting to get in, the park itself is spread wide, so that Harry and Louis barely encounter anyone as they wander the gardens. They spend hours there, rest for a while in an Asian pagoda surrounded by low-bearing trees heavy with bright pink flowers and watch little red squirrels scurry back and forth between different feeders strung up in the branches. Afterward, they find a small flower garden ringed by towering trees, the varying blossoms shaped like stars and bells and little trumpets, and they sit in the grass and watch butterflies flit from bloom to bloom.

Harry is sitting with his knees drawn up, chin resting in his cupped palm as he watches an enormous spotted butterfly pump its wings from its perch on a bright yellow flower, when he feels Louis’ hand slide across the small of his back, feels Louis’ mouth press against his shoulder. It’s quiet where they’re sitting, the only sounds the chirping of birds and the distant trickle of a pond, and they’ve both got the sleeves of their shirts rolled up against the bright afternoon sun.

“It’s nice here,” Harry hums, and Louis nods his agreement, mouth still pressed against Harry’s sun-warmed skin. Harry turns his head so he can see Louis from the corner of his eye. “Are you bored?”

Louis shakes his head, holds the position for another moment before leaning back.

“No,” he whispers, eyes dark and trained on Harry’s face. Harry can’t read his expression, but it has nerves and something that feels a bit like anticipation curling in his belly. “I just really...”

He trails off, and Harry watches him, lips pressed together, as Louis’ eyes roam his face, flicking back and forth between his eyes and lingering on his mouth. He leans in a bit, so his chest is pressed along the outside of Harry’s arm. Harry can feel his heart thundering against his bicep.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Louis murmurs, and Harry nods, waits patiently for Louis to close the gap between them, ignores the little curl of disappointment in his chest.

When he does, Harry sighs into the kiss. Despite Louis’ strange behavior and abrupt subject change, he feels incredibly peaceful, sat in the middle of a garden, butterflies flitting around them and kisses like drugs, slowing the blood in his veins so Harry feels like he’s moving through water as he lifts his hands to cup the sides of Louis’ face.

He goes easily when Louis pushes against his chest, settles back on the grass, hair a halo of tumbled curls around his head as Louis crawls over him. Harry parts his legs so Louis can settle between them, bends his knees so his thighs frame Louis’ hips, and drags his hands slowly down Louis’ back, then up again, pulling the shirt with him as he goes so that he can glide his fingers over smooth skin, trace the dip of his spine, then tuck the tips of his fingers into the waistband of Louis’ jeans.

Arousal slips over his skin as Louis kisses down the side of his throat, and Harry tips his head back to give him better access, watches a fat bumblebee hover over a bright red flower through hazy eyes as Louis sucks a bruise into the base of his neck, teeth dragging over skin as he deepens it. Harry is just about to drag Louis back up into another kiss when the sound of feet on grass registers in the back of his mind, and then there’s someone gasping and another person saying, “Oh my god, I’m so -”

Harry lifts his head to see a trio of girls standing, frozen, on the edge of their little enclosure, and he presses his lips together and stares up at the sky as Louis rolls off of him, tries desperately not to laugh as he sits up and shakes grass out of his hair.

“Hi,” Louis says cheerfully, and the girls giggle into their cupped palms.

One of them steps forward and says, “Sorry we interrupted,” and Louis shakes his head as he pushes to his feet, then turns to hold a hand out to Harry.

“‘S alright, could’ve been worse, you know.”

Harry rolls his eyes, takes Louis’ hand and lets him pull him to his feet. Then they gather up their jackets and jumpers, set toward the cluster of girls and the only way out of the little garden.

“Enjoy the park,” Harry murmurs as they squeeze past, embarrassment coloring his cheeks as he holds his coat over his lap.

They turn a corner, walking toward the sound of running water, and Harry scrubs a hand over his face, lets out a little laugh.

“Well, that was embarrassing.”

“Why?” Louis asks as he tucks a hand through the crook of Harry’s elbow. “At least they didn’t have any children with them. That might have been a bit awkward to explain.”

Harry thinks about it for a moment, eyes squinted nearly shut as he stares up at the sky, then says, “Wrestling.”

Louis purses his lips, then inclines his head. “Okay, sure. I’ll give you that one. Still could have been worse, at least we both had our clothes on.”

“Always a good thing when you’re in public,” Harry says with a nod. “Or so I’ve been told. I’ve always been a fan of being naked.”

“Do tell,” Louis hums.

Harry shrugs, slides a sidelong glance at Louis and smirks. “I’m quite confident, you know.” He rubs a hand over his stomach with a smug little smile. “Just prefer to be naked, that’s all.”

“So is that how you are when you’re at home? Just walking round naked all the time?”

“When my mum and sister aren’t around, sure. Feel quite bad for my roommate at uni, come to think of it. I hope he doesn’t mind.”

When he turns to look at Louis, Louis is leering at him, eyes dark and smile filthy. “Something tells me he won’t.”

Harry laughs. “Just because you want some of this doesn’t mean he will.”

“Well,” Louis scoffs. “He’d be an idiot not to.”

Harry’s heart flutters at the compliment and the way Louis is rubbing his cheek over his shoulder, just as a frown tugs at the corners of his mouth, the thought of sleeping with anyone other than Louis at this point strange and unwelcome.

 

That night, Louis pins Harry to the mattress with his arms over his head and sucks angry red marks into his skin, swallows Harry down and pulls him over the edge within minutes, then straddles his waist and jacks himself off, rough and fast, as he watches Harry watch him. He comes with a sharp intake of breath, paints Harry's chest with it and smears it into his skin with fingers splayed against his sternum as he leans over and licks into Harry's mouth, kisses him so hard he can barely breathe.

Afterward, chest heaving, Louis collapses onto his side and draws Harry against him, the image of Harry staring up at him, eyes wide and cheeks flushed pink with exertion, skin slick with come like he's staked a claim, painting the insides of his eyelids as he falls asleep.

~~

Harry and Louis spend most of their last day in Berlin at Tierpark, the sprawling zoo east of the city. They spend hours wandering the exhibits, laughing at children as they chase the free-roaming peacocks, and exploring the indoor habitats. They drink beer and hold hands as they watch lions nap in the sun, little yellow-faced monkeys groom each other, seals cut through the water, and fluffy red pandas gnaw on tree branches.

They spend twenty minutes watching a manatee swim lazy circles around its pool, then another twenty watching the hippos yawn, mouths gaping wide and slightly terrifying. The harpy eagle doesn’t like Louis, fluffs up its feathers and shrieks angrily until they move on to the next exhibit, but the goats at the petting zoo love him, crowd around his knees and nibble on the hem of his shorts as Harry laughs and takes videos of Louis feeding them little pellets from the palm of his hand.

After they finish at the zoo, slightly sunburnt and more than a little windswept, they head back into the city and spend the evening in the Nicholas Quarter wandering the cobblestone streets before picking a pub for dinner.

“You know,” Harry muses as he turns a glass of beer around in his hand. “I think I’ve spent more on beer in Berlin than anything else.”

Louis shrugs as he takes a sip from his own beer, the amber liquid reflecting against the blue of his eyes in the dim lighting and turning them violet.

“Isn’t that the point of a vacation?”

“What, spending exorbitant amounts of money on alcohol?” Harry asks, amused.

“No,” Louis says with a laugh, and he kicks at Harry’s ankle under the table. “Having fun and trying out the things places are known for.” He leans back in his chair, swirls a couple of chips through some ketchup and lifts them to his mouth. “If I was in Jamaica, you can believe I would have rum in my hand at all times.”

“Well of course,” Harry hums. “Be a waste of time if you didn’t.”

“Exactly.”

Harry shakes his head, but he’s smiling as he leans across the table to snag a couple of chips for himself.

“Are you excited for Cologne?”

Harry watches Louis as he chews, waiting for an answer. Louis tips his head to the side as he considers.

“Maybe. More excited for Amsterdam, though, if I’m honest.”

“Is that so,” Harry murmurs, amusement coloring his voice.

“Mmm.” Louis slides a foot up Harry’s leg under the table, winks at him and says with a cheerful grin, “Weed makes me horny.”

~~

They leave for Cologne in the morning, slip into a taxi before the sun has even made an appearance, and fall back asleep the moment they get seated on the train. It’s just over four hours, and Harry wakes up halfway through to find Louis sitting up and reading the guide book.

“What’re you looking at,” Harry says sleepily as he drapes himself over Louis’ side. Louis presses a kiss to his forehead, eyes never leaving the page.

“Just reading about the cathedral.” He traces over the little inset picture with his finger. “It’s very weird looking. Did you know they started building it in the twelve-hundreds?”

Harry shakes his head, hides a jaw-cracking yawn against the side of Louis’ neck.

“‘S a long time ago,” he slurs as he walks his fingers down Louis’ thigh toward his knee.

Louis bats his hand away and says, amused, “What are you doing?”

Harry shrugs, then turns his head, chin digging into the top of Louis’ shoulder.

“Kiss me good morning.”

“Okay,” Louis says simply, and he sets the book aside, then turns in the seat to face Harry, cups his palms under Harry’s jaw and slides their lips together. They keep it chaste, surrounded by people on the packed train, but Harry sighs happily when Louis draws back, then slides down in the seat and rolls onto his side to he can rest his head in Louis’ lap, falls back asleep to Louis playing absently with his hair.

 

The hostel they’ve chosen is amazing, each room decorated in a different theme. They pass a room that’s been built to look like a forest, the skirt on each bed draped to make it look like a hammock, and a space-themed suite with nebulas painted on the walls and a bed shaped like a spaceship and set on a riser so it looks like it’s floating. The dormitory they’re booked in has bunk beds built out of the walls, framed in so that they appear like old-fashioned trunks. The frames are covered in thick fabric made to look like leather and inset with heavy metal handles, and there are curtains that can be drawn to give the beds a bit more privacy.

Harry smiles as he looks around the room. “It’s a shame we’re only here one night.”

Louis waggles his eyebrows as he tugs on the curtains framing one of the bunks.

“Yeah, look at all this privacy. And no metal bedframes, either. Reckon we could get up to some antics in here, as long as you keep quiet.”

After they’ve checked in and washed up, they take a tram across the Rhine to the KoelnTriangle, take the lift up to the observation deck. The twin spires of the cathedral dominate the skyline across the river, the arches of the Hohenzollern Bridge like a runway leading straight toward the church.

Harry walks around the perimeter of the deck, taking panoramic shots of the city from the four points, then comes to a stop beside Louis. Louis has his hands splayed against the glass surrounding the deck as he watches the water move sluggishly downriver, barges and tour boats making their way back and forth across the city. Harry hooks his chin over Louis’ shoulder so he can watch cars wind their way through the streets and trams and pedestrians cross the bridge, so small they look like ants.

All of the sudden, Louis turns to Harry, hands falling to his sides. “Let’s take a picture, come on. With the bridge and the cathedral behind us.”

Harry turns around so his back is facing the city, but Louis shakes his head, grasps his shoulders and turns him back so they’re facing each other. He takes the phone from Harry and Harry watches, confused, as Louis flips the camera around, then holds it out, squints up as he frames them in and makes sure the bridge and cathedral are visible in the background. Once he’s got it, Louis reaches out, wraps his hand around the back of Harry’s neck and tugs him into a kiss.

Harry barely registers the sound of the shutter going off as his hands settle onto Louis’ hips automatically. He hears it go off a few more times, too busy concentrating on kissing Louis to care.

When Louis pulls back, he looks properly flustered, cheeks pink as he licks his lips and looks down at the phone to make sure the photos have turned out alright. Harry watches him swipe his thumb across the screen as he studies them, swallows around a sudden lump in his throat when Louis settles on one, then emails it to himself.

He turns to stare back down at the bridge, not ready to think about Louis heading back to England and getting home to find that photo in his inbox. After a few more minutes of looking out at the city, Harry feels Louis’ hand slip into his, then Louis says, “Ready to move on?”

They head back down to ground level and walk toward the bridge. As they step onto it, Harry notices little colored locks attached to the fence, frowns as he bends over a bit to get a closer look. The locks are sparse on their end of the bridge, but he can see that they increase in number as they near the other side of the river. He stops so he can trace his finger over one of the locks, bright red with two interlocking hearts engraved on the side.

“What’s that,” Louis asks as he stops next to Harry.

“A lock. It’s got names on it.” Harry turns to point down the fence. “Look, there are more.”

They walk along the bridge slowly, and Harry trails his hand over the locks as they go, metal clinking against metal and mixing with the sound of the trams crossing the bridge and the boats passing underneath. They come in all different sizes and shapes and colors, from small rounded locks to intricately carved ones as big as Louis’ hand, locks made of brass or iron, some in varying neon shades, some in the shapes of hearts, so big they stick straight out from the fence.

“They’re love locks,” Harry murmurs as he hunkers down to study one of them. It’s made of heavy iron, with chain links instead of a regular lock, and it’s got a set of initials, ‘D + R,’ and the date ‘19.7.88’ engraved on the front. Harry’s stomach swoops and he blinks, clears the burn out of the back of his throat before saying, “That’s today.”

“What?” Louis drops into a crouch beside Harry, his body warm where they’re pressed together, and Harry is having a hard time breathing. “Oh, hey, cool.”

Louis reaches out to trace the numbers of the date - July nineteenth, just like today, except more than two decades apart. Harry watches him, eyes unfocused as he concentrates on inhaling and exhaling. Everywhere he looks, there are more locks, declarations of love and commitment spanning decades. He wonders vaguely if ‘D’ and ‘R’ are still together, if their lock worked its magic and they’ve managed to stick it out for the past twenty-four years. He hopes they have, thinks briefly about how it would feel, adding his own lock to the mix, as he watches Louis’ small fingers fiddle with various locks along the stretch of fence in front of them, listens to him mumble off names carved into metal or drawn on with sharpie.

He shoves that thought out of his mind immediately, though, tells himself that sort of thinking just won’t do. They’ve got two weeks left. Two weeks, then they’re going to go their separate ways. Louis will go back to his friends, and Harry will start a new life at uni, meet new people and make new friends, and he won’t think about Louis at all.

Right.

 

Once they’ve made their way to the other side of the bridge, Harry turns to look at it one last time, eyes lingering on the wall of locks as Louis slides their hands together, laces their fingers and squeezes. He doesn’t squeeze back.

They turn left off of the bridge to visit Museum Ludwig, an oddly shaped building that’s home to collections of modern and surrealist art, from Picasso to Chagall, Warhol to Rauschenberg. They’re both quiet as they move through the museum, Harry still thinking helplessly about the locks on the bridge and Louis’ fingers tracing the different names and dates. He’s got a horrible image in his mind, clear as day, of his fingers as they slide the hook of a lock around one of the links on the fence, sun glinting off the letters ‘H + L’ carved into the front as Louis pushes on the bottom of the padlock so the hook slides home, can see the two of them turning afterward to toss the key into the river together. But the scene makes his heart ache and his throat tight, so he shakes the image out of his head determinedly and tries to focus on the paintings in front of him, instead.

Harry knows art museums are not Louis’ favorite, so they don’t stay long, just enough to see all of the Picassos and a few of the more famous works of art before moving on to the Cologne Cathedral. Louis is oddly reserved as they wander through it, and Harry wonders if he’s picked up on his own mood, or if the bridge had rattled him, as well, thinks it’s probably best not to ask.

The inside of the cathedral is lovely, long and narrow, with stained glass windows that tower toward the ceiling and cast beams of multicolored light across the pews. They don’t climb to the top of the spires, choose instead to move on to the Heinzelmaennchenbrunnen, a fountain built to honor a legendary race of elves who helped the citizens of Cologne do their work overnight, until they were discovered by the wife of a tailor and never returned. Harry lets Louis read him the story of the elves off his phone while they lean against the fence bordering the fountain, eyes closed as he listens to the rise and fall of Louis’ voice, the faint hum of conversation from the restaurant a few meters away, the trickle of water coming from the fountain, itself.

Afterward, they stop into the old Kolsch brewery for a drink before going off in search of dinner closer to the hostel. Dinner is quiet, both of their moods subdued, and they order more beer with their food, so that by the time they head back to the hostel, Harry’s head is swimming pleasantly and he hasn’t thought of love locks in over an hour.

They’re still quiet as they get ready for bed, air a bit awkward despite the beer buzz, but when they climb into bed, Louis leans over Harry and draws the curtains, then settles against him immediately and pulls him into a kiss. They kiss, softly and without any intent, for what feels like hours, until Harry’s lips are numb and he’s so tired he can barely keep his eyes open. He draws back, then, brushes a kiss over Louis’ cheek, then flips over, waits for Louis to settle against his back and rest his hand on his chest, falls asleep to the even puff of Louis’ breath against the back of his neck and the quiet patter of rain against the window.

~~

Friday dawns grey and misty, clouds heavy with rain. Despite the fog, Harry and Louis bundle into their ponchos and stick to their schedule, make their way to the Rheinseilbahn for a ride in a cable car across the Rhine.

They can’t see much, fog too thick to see down toward the ground, but they have a car to themselves, so Harry sits sideways on the bench, legs sprawled so that Louis can sit between them and lean back against him. He can just make out the green of lawns below them, the gray water of the river and the multi-colored blur of cars over the bridge, but everything is hazy, so Harry turns his attention toward the sky and the swirl of storm clouds as he plays with Louis’ fingers.

It’s too gloomy out to linger at Rheinpark when they disembark on the other side of the river, but they do a brief walk-through, then get into another cable car and head back to the other side and into town for a tour of the Praetorium, a relic of when the Roman Empire controlled the area.

There are hardly any people in the Praetorium, and most of the signs are in German, but they wander the underground ruins and adjoining sewer tunnel for over an hour, fascinated by the network of rooms and crumbling walls, ancient pottery hung from the ceiling as a display, or set on shelves for closer looks.

It’s stopped raining by the time they leave the Praetorium, and they walk toward the river to Frankenwerft, pochos rolled up and tucked under their arms. They wander the neighborhood for a bit, find a place for lunch and more beer, then stop in a couple of the shops and search out a post office to mail some postcards home.

“You know, I think I’ve got about five hundred postcards from other cities sitting in my bag in the room,” Louis says with a frown as he pushes a postcard of the cathedral through the mail slot. “My sister are probably going to kill me when I get home.”

Harry shrugs. “Bring them presents, they won’t remember.”

“Hey.”

Harry raises an eyebrow as Louis turns around and pokes him in the side.

“Yes, Lou?”

“Guess where we’re going next.”

Harry rolls his eyes and says with a groan, “I can’t believe I let you convince me to do this.” He glares at Louis. “We’re going to smell for the rest of the day.”

Louis shrugs.

“At least we’ll smell _nice_.”

They’re only a few minutes’ walk from the museum, and Harry stops outside the building so he can gear himself up for it. Louis tugs on his hand insistently, whines, “Come on, Haz, I wanna learn about the history of perfume!”

“You are horrible,” Harry states, but he lets Louis drag him through the front door of the Fragrance Museum.

The tour takes just over an hour, and by the time they’re done, Harry has a headache and he’s pretty sure he’s going to be smelling perfume on himself for the next two days, at _least_.

“I want to burn my clothes,” Louis declares as soon as they step back outside, and Harry rolls his eyes, takes the little bottle of perfume they’d been given with ticket purchase and spritzes it on the inside of his wrist.

He hums happily as he rubs his wrists together, says, “Now I’ll smell pretty for the rest of the day.”

“I hate you. That museum was the biggest mistake I've ever made. Can we go eat some chocolate now?”

The sun is peeking out from behind the clouds as they walk back to the river again. The water is a muddy brown, but the sun is winking off the surface of it, casting little starbursts on the peaks of gently rolling waves as boats chug past. They have to cross a bridge to get to the chocolate museum, and there’s a small queue out front, so Harry turns his face toward the sky and basks in the little bit of sunlight while they wait.

The ticket attendant hands them small bars of chocolate with their tickets, and inside the museum there’s an enormous chocolate fountain, where they’re given little wafers that have been dipped in the molten chocolate, and this is officially Harry’s favorite museum in the world.

He turns to Louis, mouth full of chocolate, and says, “This is my favorite museum in the world. Can we stay here and skip Amsterdam?”

Louis widens his eyes and says, “No! If anything, we should skip Copenhagen.” He leans in close so that he can murmur, “I want to get high and make out with you for hours. Don’t take that away from me, Styles.”

Harry chokes on his wafer, and Louis has to pound on his back, a smug little smile curling his lips as he accepts a cup of water from one of the attendants.

They wander the museum for an hour, learning about the history of chocolate and how it’s made, then browse the shop by the entrance. Harry buys a few boxes for his mum and makes a note to mail them to her so he doesn’t have to carry them with him for the rest of the trip.

It’s still sunny once they leave the museum, so they cross back over the bridge and walk back toward Frankenwerft to find a grassy spot along the river to spread out their ponchos and relax. Louis stretches his legs out and knocks the toes of his trainers together to a rhythm in his head, and Harry lies down with his head in Louis’ lap, eyes closed as Louis works knots out of his hair, separating individual curls and spreading them out across his thigh.

It’s cooled considerably by the time the sun has started to set, and they have to leave anyway, have a train to catch. There’s just enough time to stop at a pub for dinner, and then they have to rush to grab the tram back to the hostel and a taxi to the train station.

 

Safely settled on the train, Harry sits back against the window and drags Louis between his knees, hands locked over his stomach. Louis leans his head back against Harry’s shoulder as the train lurches into motion, and hums happily.

“I liked Cologne. I think I’ll have to come back one day.” Louis blinks slowly, then lowers his head, chin tucked down against his chest, and picks at Harry’s fingers, lifts one of his hands and lines their palms up. Harry curls the tips of his fingers down over Louis’ smaller ones, then shifts them a bit so he can slide them into the vee’s between Louis’ and lock their hands together. Louis lifts their clasped hands, presses a kiss to the back of Harry’s palm, then murmurs, “Next time, I’ll put my own lock on the bridge.”

Harry’s stomach twists and he closes his eyes briefly, takes slow, even breaths as he tries not to think about Louis carving his name into the side of a lock, then someone else’s name into the other. Instead, he tips his head back against the window and keeps his eyes shut, whispers, “Yeah, Lou. Me, too.”


	8. Chapter 8

Despite the fact that it’s nearing the end of July, Amsterdam is chilly and damp, and Harry is grateful for his foresight when packing for the trip as he shrugs into his jacket before exiting the train. They’re only a few blocks from their hostel, so Harry navigates them there with his phone, left, right, left, then down the narrow street toward downtown.

Louis drops his bag and ID off at the hostel with Harry, then runs to the coffee shop across the street while Harry checks them in. The hostel is tall and narrow, and Harry can hear the faint sounds of laughter and music coming from the back of the floor. The woman at the reception desk slides two card keys across the counter and says, “Your room is the second door on the left, showers are across the hall, and the bar and smoking room are in the back.”

Harry catalogs the rooms as she lists them, looking down the hall to count them out.

“Your friend will need this card to get in,” she taps one of the keys. “You will have to wait for him to get back.”

“Thank you,” Harry says with a smile, then grabs the keys and drags his and Louis’ bags to the side to wait. It’s only a couple of minutes till Louis shows up, smile bright and one hand tucked inconspicuously into the pocket of his coat.

“Sorry, love,” he chirps as he bends down to grab his duffel. “There were a lot of choices.”

They swipe their cards through a turnstile to get through to the hallway and shoulder their way into the dorm. It’s a small room, four sets of queen-sized, wooden-framed bunk beds lined up along walls painted green and blue, like grass and the sky, with little white cutouts for clouds. Louis snorts.

“This is cute.”

Harry shrugs, points to the ends of the bunks and says, “We’re just here to sleep. Look, they have lockers, though.”

Two sets of bunks are taken, so Harry and Louis claim a the top bunk over by the windows with their bags, then lock their valuables in the accompanying locker and head to the bar. Despite the fact that it’s nearing midnight and the bar isn’t open to the public, it’s packed, groups crowded around small tables and lined up along the bar as they talk and laugh and drink. There’s a pool table and several chess boards, all surrounded by guests, so Harry and Louis sidle up to the bar and order pints, then head straight for the smoking room.

The smoking room is nearly as crowded as the bar, lined with heavy leather sofas and walls of books, but there’s a small terrace out back with chairs and benches, and it’s just cold enough that there are only a couple of people outside, so they slip out onto the little deck and drag two chairs together against the wall. Harry holds their beers while Louis tugs the bag of weed out of his pocket.

“I got one that’s not too strong, because I wasn’t sure you’ve ever smoked before? And then two stronger ones. It’s quite late, so let’s just have a bit of the weaker one tonight, yeah?”

Harry nods, watches while Louis pulls a piece of rolling paper out of the bag and lays it carefully on his knee, then taps some of the weed from one of the three baggies onto the paper and puts it back in his pocket. Harry sets their beers down on the deck and leans closer to Louis, elbows on his knees, so he can watch closely as Louis folds the paper over and rolls it between his fingers, then tucks one of the flaps inside and rolls it into a tight tube.

His eyes flick up to Harry’s as he lifts the rolled joint to his mouth, and Harry holds his gaze as he licks the edge of the paper and folds it down, twists the ends with short flicks of his wrist and presents the joint to Harry.

“Do you want to light it?”

Harry bites his lip and shakes his head. He’s not nervous. Not really, anyway. He’d tried a cigarette a couple of years back at a party, because everyone else was smoking and he didn’t want to be that one person who refused to join in, but he had hated it, didn’t like how the smoke slid down his throat and how raw it had felt after he’d finished coughing. He wants to try this, though, he does. He just wants Louis to go first.

Louis tugs a lighter out of his pocket, a cheap Bic, and Harry smirks, reaches a finger out to tap the bright green plastic.

“Nice.”

Louis shrugs as he flicks it on a few times. “It was this or black, but the green reminded me of you.”

He smiles at Harry, warm and fond, then slips the joint into his mouth and cups his hand over the end to shield it from the wind as he lights it. Harry tracks the way Louis’ jumper strains over his chest as he inhales, the way his cheeks hollow and the purse of his lips, and he licks his own subconsciously when Louis lowers the lighter and the joint and smiles at him before blowing a thin stream of smoke over his shoulder.

Louis doesn’t say anything, just holds the joint out to Harry, a question in his eyes, and he must notice the way Harry hesitates, because he says, “Here, let’s try this.”

He lifts the joint to his lips again, takes a long drag, then crooks a finger at Harry. Harry leans forward, lips parting in surprise when Louis leans in, as well, and seals their lips together. He inhales automatically when Louis pushes the smoke into his mouth, coughs a little at the unexpected slide of it down his throat when Louis leans back a bit, their noses still brushing. A cheer goes up from inside the smoking room, and Harry ducks his head, a blush coloring his cheeks, and coughs into his fist.

“You alright?” Louis asks quietly, rubbing his arm, and Harry nods, offers Louis a small smile.

“Yeah, I’m good. Just wasn’t expecting that.”

“Sorry,” Louis murmurs, and he closes the gap between them for a brief kiss, then leans back in his chair and drapes his legs across Harry’s thighs. “Your turn, babe.”

Harry takes the joint from Louis and mimics him, closes his lips around it and inhales slowly, lets the smoke fill his throat and lungs, then blows out a steady stream of it.

“Good?”

Harry nods, takes another hit before handing it back to Louis. His throat feels a bit dry, and he remembers they have beers, so he bends over Louis’ legs to pick his up, takes a few gulps, then offers the glass to Louis.

“I don’t think I’m going to become a regular smoker, though,” Harry says as he watches Louis take a sip of the beer, joint held loosely between his fingers.

“You’re such a good boy,” Louis says with a smile as he hands the glass back to Harry.

“Hey,” Harry protests. “Give me that.”

He snatches the joint from Louis’ fingers and settles back in his chair, keeps his eyes locked on Louis’ as he takes a hit, then another.

“Alright, don’t be greedy,” Louis chastises, and he leans over to take it back.

Harry’s never thought of smoking as something particularly attractive, but Louis makes it look good, lips pursed around the joint, his narrow fingers fanned out as he holds it like a cigarette, the way his eyelids flutter as he inhales. Harry tips his head back against the wall while Louis smokes, content to watch.

The smoking room has emptied a bit and it’s relatively quiet out on the balcony, only the faintest sounds from the bar reaching them in their little bubble. The night is cold, but Louis is warm beside him, eyes a hazy blue, unwavering as he watches Harry from his sprawl in the chair. Harry reaches out for the joint, tugs on the end of Louis’ beanie before leaning back.

“So, what’s this about weed making you horny?”

Louis grins lazily at him and nods, kicks one of his feet out so it jostles Harry’s legs. “It’ll come, love. It’ll come.”

They sit outside and smoke until the room clears out, then move inside and roll another joint. Harry lets Louis convince him to light this one, stomach fluttering pleasantly when, even though it’s completely unnecessary, Louis closes his hands over Harry’s and helps him hold the joint and the lighter. He can feel Louis’ eyes roving his face as he lights it, his own locked on the end of the joint to make sure he’s not doing it wrong, and once it’s lit, he frowns a little when Louis’ hands drop away, pulling the lighter with him.

He reaches out blindly and grasps Louis’ leg as he inhales, then passes the joint to Louis, breath held, but Louis shakes his head, pats his thighs until Harry cottons on and crawls into his lap. Harry ducks his head expectantly, lips curving up into a smile as Louis leans up and presses their lips together, waits for Harry to exhale. Harry parts his lips a fraction and blows the smoke into Louis’ mouth, lets out a throaty little moan when the shot-gunning turns into an actual kiss. Harry settles back on Louis' thighs and moans when Louis slides his hands into his hair, tugging his head back and deepening the kiss. Feet planted on the floor, Louis grinds their hips together and turns the kiss absolutely filthy.

Harry nearly fumbles the joint, but remembers at the last second, pries himself away and tips his head back so he can mumble, “The joint, Lou.”

But Louis just turns his attention to Harry’s throat, nipping his way down the column of it till he gets to Harry’s collarbones, the knobs of them peeking out of the neck of his jumper. Determined not to waste the weed, Harry just leans his head back and lets Louis tug at the collar of his jumper, lets him suck a bruise into the wing of one of the sparrows as he takes another hit.

He lets his eyes slide shut as Louis marks him up, every swipe of his tongue and nip of his teeth traveling straight to his dick, but there’s still a bit of the joint left, so he just slips his hand around to grasp the back of Louis’ neck, toes curling in his boots when Louis grinds up up up, hips rolling just enough to grant them a bit of friction.

“Haz,” Louis grits out, voice gone hoarse, and Harry lowers his chin so he can see Louis. He looks wrecked already, beanie sliding off his hair, cheeks flushed pink, pupils blown wide, and Harry licks his lips, tightens his grip on Louis’ neck and scoots a little closer in his lap.

“Yeah, Lou.”

“I wanna suck you off.”

“Oh.” Harry lifts his head and looks around. They’re still alone, but he can hear the low hum of chatter coming from the bar, and the door is made of glass. “Okay, but maybe not in here.”

Louis whines, deep in his throat, and Harry leans forward to drop the joint into an ashtray, then wraps his hands around the sides of Louis’ neck and kisses him, slow and easy. It feels like everything is moving slowly, and he hums appreciatively when Louis presses a thumb against one of the bruises on Harry’s chest and grinds up again. He can feel the hard line of Louis’ dick against his own, heat rolling off him in waves, and he tries to calculate how far it is to their room, but all he can think about is Louis’ mouth on him.

“No.” He shakes his head, unaware of the fact that he’s answering his own thoughts. Harry drops his hands and says, “Up, come on. Bedroom.”

Harry slides off of Louis' lap, mind gone hazy as he watches Louis pause to stub out the joint, then stride toward the door, not waiting to see if Harry is following. Harry follows, of course he does, hot on Louis’ heels as they cross the bar and shuffle down the hall toward their room. It’s dark in the room, the only light coming from underneath the door and the book light from a bottom bunk on the other side of the room, but it’s enough for them to be able to make their way across and clamber up the ladder onto their bed. There’s no one sleeping underneath them, so Harry doesn’t worry about the way his boots are knocking against the frame as he tries to wrestle them off.

They manage to pull their clothes off without too much thoroughfare, drop them in a careless heap on top of the lockers, and then Louis is reaching around and pushing Harry into the mattress by his shoulders and whispering, “Be quiet.”

Harry nods, already so turned on he feels like there are flames sliding over his skin, and he thinks that if this is what it feels like to have sex when you’re high, he always wants to be high. He makes a little noise of surprise when Louis tugs the blankets up over his head, and Louis pinches his side in retaliation, hisses at him, then tucks the blanket around Harry’s chest.

Harry drapes an arm across his mouth, just in case, as he feels the tips of Louis’ fingers slide under the waistband of his pants, lets his eyes slide shut as Louis drags them down his thighs and takes him in hand. Louis’ hands are rough and a little cold, but he’s too far gone to care, toes already curling down into the mattress in anticipation.

He doesn’t have to wait long, Louis too eager to tease, and he swallows him down in one go. Harry sucks in a sharp breath, tries desperately not to whimper as Louis hollows his cheeks around him and sucks hard, tongue curled against the underside, and before he knows what he’s doing, Harry is planting his feet on the mattress and fucking into Louis’ mouth. Louis presses his thumbs into Harry’s hips, but doesn’t pull off, just limits his range of motion so that Harry can thrust shallowly. Harry has to clamp his teeth down over the skin of his bicep to stop the noises from falling from his mouth, and it’s not long before he can feel his orgasm creeping down his throat and coiling around the base of his spine, and he comes so hard he sees stars, bright bursts of light against the backs of his eyelids as Louis swallows around him.

Louis sucks him through it, until Harry’s thighs are trembling and he has to shove his hands under the blankets and push Louis off. Louis tosses the sheets back and crawls up the mattress, lips slick and obscenely red, and Harry yanks him down into a kiss just as Louis throws one leg over Harry’s hip and settles back against his thigh, erection pressing against the top of it. Harry uses his foot still flat on the mattress to grind up, and Louis hisses into his mouth as he ruts against him.

Harry slides his hands down Louis’ back and presses them down over Louis’ arse, using his grip to increase the pressure, and then Louis is gasping into Harry’s mouth, cock pulsing against Harry’s thigh as he comes. Harry rubs his hands up and down Louis’ back as he shakes through it, whispers soothing noises against Louis’ lips until Louis shuts him up with a kiss, slow and languid as they both come down.

He can feel his high wearing off, limbs growing heavy with exhaustion, and just lies back as Louis shuffles around on the bed, tugging his pants off and then crawling under the blankets. Harry turns into Louis as soon as he settles, throws a leg over Louis’ hip and burrows into Louis’ chest. Sleep is already dragging him down, the combination of a long day, his high wearing off, and an orgasm enough to knock him out, and the last thing he registers is Louis’ arm curling around his back, fingers spread between his shoulder blades, and Louis pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

~~

They sleep in a bit the next morning, wake up to an empty room and the sound of clinking glasses coming from the bar. Harry groans as he stretches his limbs out, huffs out a laugh when Louis mumbles, “Is this a hostel for alcoholics?”

They dress slowly, still a bit sleep-hazy, then cross the hall to the bathrooms. Harry knocks their hips together as they brush their teeth, and Louis smiles at him, lips foamy with toothpaste and eyelids still heavy, and Harry’s heart lurches painfully in his chest. He sucks in a quick breath and accidentally swallows some toothpaste, bends over so he can spit into the sink and cough as it coats his throat in a minty flavor so strong it burns his nose.

Louis pats his back as he spits into his own sink, then asks,“You alright, love?”

Harry nods, turns the tap on so he can rinse his mouth out and swallow some of the water, try and wash the taste of the toothpaste out of his throat.

“Ugh,” he groans as he straightens up. “Why don’t they make toothpaste that actually tastes good?”

“Well, you’re not _supposed_ to eat it, you know,” Louis says with a smirk, and Harry scowls at him, but there’s no heat behind it.

They walk down the block and buy sandwiches and beers from a cafe, then spend the rest of the morning at Vondelpark. They wander around for a bit, then pick one of the lakes and sit along the bank to eat lunch, toss little bits of bread to the geese and watch a man play frisbee with his dog a few meters away.

After lunch, they walk to Museumplein to visit the Van Gogh Museum, a collection of hundreds of paintings and drawings that leave even Louis in awe. They decide not to go to any of the other museums, but stop for a photo in front of the ‘I Amsterdam’ sign before heading back toward town for the Heineken Experience.

Heineken is not Harry’s favorite beer, but they get three complimentary glasses that he’s not about to turn down. So, pleasantly beer-fuzzy, they catch the tram to Begijnhof so they can explore the pretty little neighborhood, then squander away the rest of the daylight at Spui Square and browsing the shops on Kalverstraat.

Once the sun has started to set, they catch another tram to Leiden Square, pick a restaurant with outdoor seating for dinner, and spend hours eating, drinking, and people-watching as the square fills up around them. They round the night off with a visit to the Bridge of Fifteen Bridges, stand in the center of it and stare out at the other illuminated bridges and the reflections of the ones they can’t see in the water of the canal.

Louis leans over the railing of the bridge, elbows propped on the cold cement, and Harry drapes himself over Louis’ back as they watch the reflection of the lights in the rippling water. It’s cold at night, though, and it’s not long before they’re shivering, so they make their way back to the hostel.

~~

On Sunday, Harry pokes Louis awake, grins when Louis tries to bat his hands away and burrow into the pillow. He looks like a grumpy child, nose scrunched up and eyes squeezed shut, mouth curved down into a petulant frown.

“Louuuu,” Harry coos. “Come on, Louis, we’ve got an exciting day today! And we’re actually up early enough for breakfast, let’s go get some. I’m hungry.”

As if on cue, Harry’s stomach growls loudly, and Louis snorts into the pillow, squints one eye open and says, voice sleep-rough, “That’s impressive, mate, really.”

Harry rubs a hand over his stomach and grins.

“I have him well trained. Come on.” He pokes Louis again. “Breakfast and museum! You know you’re excited for this one.”

“I think _you’re_ the excited one, Haz,” but Louis sits up, lets the blankets fall away as he rubs the sleep out of his eyes. Harry drinks him in hungrily, but doesn’t allow himself more than a brush of fingertips down Louis’ bare side before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and hopping down.

They dress quickly, then head downstairs for breakfast. The kitchen is full of hostel guests, and Harry and Louis seat themselves across from a small group of Americans on summer hols who’ve just come from Copenhagen. Harry listens intently while they make suggestions of places to see and tries not to smile too hard when one of them compliments his fedora. He aims a smug smile at Louis, though, unable to help it, and Louis rolls his eyes, but he tucks his foot behind Harry’s ankle and props his elbow on the table, spread out so their arms are touching.

It only takes Harry and Louis a couple of minutes to walk to the museum, and Harry grins up at the facade, lifts his phone to take a photo of the sign that reads ‘Sexmuseum.’ He can _feel_ Louis rolling his eyes, even though he’s not looking at him, and he clucks his tongue, says, “You didn’t veto, so no complaints.”

The museum is a strange mixture of erotic photographs, displays of modern and old fashioned bondage gear, and statues of genitalia. Louis shakes his head as they climb stairs, the walls lined with plastic moulds of people’s backsides and women’s breasts.

“It is way too early in the morning for all of this.”

They walk the rest of the museum, though, and on the way out, pause by two enormous statues of penises, each one taller than Harry, flanking a set of chairs. Louis huffs out a breath.

“Well, I’m feeling rather inadequate at the moment.”

Harry barks out a laugh and reaches out to squeeze the back of Louis’ neck, leers at Louis and says, “Trust me, Lou, you are more than adequate.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but his cheeks flush pink and he nudges their shoulders together, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Harry wrinkles his nose as he stares up at the statue, and then Louis is saying, “Take a picture of me with one of them.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, but pulls his phone out as Louis moves over to one of the statues and sits down on the base. He tries to wrap his arms around it, but can’t fit them all the way around. Harry steps back for a better angle, bites his lip around a giggle when Louis sticks his tongue out and pretends to lick it.

“Well, this is proper disgusting,” Harry announces as he scrolls through the photos. He looks up as Louis skips over to see them. “Please don’t show these to your sisters.” He pauses, looks down at the one of Louis with his tongue out. “Or your mum.”

Louis hums as he takes the phone from Harry and holds it up for a better look.

“I don’t know, Haz, I might have to have this one framed. We should get someone to take one of the both of us.”

He looks around for someone to ask, flags down another tourist who looks like she won’t be too scandalized. She takes photos of them in various poses with the statues, even makes a few suggestions, and ends on one of Louis sitting on the base with Harry perched on his lap, lips pressed together in a kiss.

She laughs down at the photo as they walk over, says, “I don’t know whether this is adorable or horrifying.”

Harry laughs at the sight they make, posing for a couple’s photo while sat on a statue of a giant dick.

“I dunno,” Louis muses, a soft smile curving his mouth as he looks down at the phone. “Might have to get this one framed, as well.”

 

After the Sexmuseum, they walk to Dam Square to see the National Monument, then catch the tram to Anne Frank’s House, wander the museum for an hour, then walk to Jordaan. They eat lunch at a cafe right on the canal, toss bits of bread to the swans while they wait for their food, then walk the narrow streets, lined with trees and brightly colored flowers, in search of gifts for their families. They walk around the area until it’s dark out, then walk back into town to check out the Red Light District.

It’s dark once they reach the district, and the streets are crowded with tourists. The lights from the buildings reflect off the water of the canal, dotted with swans paddling lazily up and down the waterway. It’s not really what Harry had expected, just scantily-clad girls posing in the windows of clubs and shops, signs here and there advertising sex shows that he has no interest in watching. Harry and Louis walk the canal and side streets, hands clasped and swinging between them as they take in their surroundings.

They find a fairly average looking cafe down one of the streets and stop in for some tea and pastries, and Louis insists on stopping in one of the condom stores. He points at a display of flavored condoms and muses, “I never really understood the point of these. If I’m going to suck someone’s cock, I’m not going to do it with a condom on.”

Harry shrugs as he leans in to read the label that lists the flavors. “Maybe some people don’t like the flavor of dick.”

“No one _likes_ the flavor of dick, Haz. Oh,” he giggles, “Look at these.”

He points to a box that says ‘Love You Pack’ on the front. It boasts a vanilla flavored condom, a heart-shaped lollipop, a heart-shaped condom, a sachet of lube, and some conversation hearts.

“The conversation hearts really make the package. I think I need this,” Louis says, and he takes a box off the shelf. At Harry’s raised eyebrow, he adds, “As a souvenir.”

“Right,” Harry says, amused, but he walks to the register with Louis and waits for him to pay for the box. They head back out onto the street, and Louis loops their arms together, then tucks his hands into the pockets of his coat and leads them back toward the canal. They walk for a bit longer, then head back to the hostel, shed their coats and the fedora and head to the bar.

There’s an opening at the pool table, so Harry grabs them a couple of beers while Louis claims the table. They end up playing on a team against two of the Americans they had met that morning, though they lose spectacularly, and end up back in the smoking room with them, sharing a couple of joints. Harry and Louis curl up together on one end of the couch while the Americans claim the other half and most of another sofa, and they talk and laugh, smoke and drink beer until it’s nearing two in the morning and Harry can barely keep his eyes open, head lolling back against Louis’ shoulder as he struggles not to fall asleep.

Louis has to shuffle him off to bed and help him up the ladder, and Harry curls into Louis’ chest and falls asleep immediately.

~~

Having gotten most of the attractions out of the way, the rest of their trip is loosely scheduled so they can relax and enjoy the city.

On Monday, they take a canal tour by boat, huddled together on a bench with steaming cups of tea as the guide tells them about the history of Amsterdam and different buildings they pass. It starts raining as the boat pulls up to the dock, so they dash back to the hostel for their ponchos, then head out and just wander the city through lunch, then walk to the Tattoo Museum.

The museum is oddly fascinating, and they spend a couple of hours wandering through it. There’s a cafe upstairs, and they sit in it for a while, drinking beer, sharing a plate of chips, and watching the rain fall outside the windows. There had been a sign downstairs boasting an in-house tattoo artist, and Harry considers getting one while they relax, tries to think of what he’d like to get. He thinks back on the cities they’ve visited and the places they’ve been, and somewhere between thoughts of gondola paddles and the hands from the Creation of Adam, it comes to him.

He reaches his foot out to nudge Louis’ ankle under the table. Louis tears his eyes away from the window, reaches out and rubs his hand over the top of Harry’s thigh, murmurs, “Yeah, love?”

“I want to stop by the tattoo parlor on the way out.”

“Oh.” Louis raises an eyebrow. “Did you see something inside you liked?”

Harry shrugs. “Not really, I just had an idea.”

“Okay.” Louis offers Harry an easy smile, and they sit for a bit longer while they finish their drinks and the chips, then wander back downstairs. There’s only one other person in front of Harry, and they lean back against the wall while they wait, Louis tucked up under Harry’s arm as they look at the drawings littering the walls.

Louis is in the bathroom when Harry’s turn comes up, and by the time he gets back, the tattoo is nearly completed. It’s small enough that the tattoo artist’s hand shields it from view, and even though Louis pesters him, Harry won’t tell him what it is after it’s been wrapped up in gauze and plastic to protect it from the rain.

Harry keeps it wrapped for the rest of the evening, not quite ready to show Louis just yet. They stop for dinner along the way back to the hostel, a tiny little Indian restaurant that smells heavenly. Louis keeps glaring at the bit of gauze as they share a curry, but Harry just smiles serenely at him every time he asks about it.

Back at the hostel, they grab the bag of weed from their room, get some beers, then head out onto the balcony. They huddle under the little overhang while Louis rolls a joint, then pass it back and forth and sip their beers as they watch rain patter onto the wood of the deck and collect in the dips and cracks. Even with the noise coming from the bar and smoking room, it’s peaceful out on the deck; the sound of the rain, the clink of their glasses, the thunk of the heels of Harry’s boots on the wood as he shifts in his chair all blending together into one relaxing backdrop of sound.

By the time they’ve finished the joint, Harry feels incredibly loose, slumped back in his chair so that his feet are sticking out from under the overhang, but he can’t even bring himself to care that his boots are getting wet. He hears a rustle of fabric, turns his head from where it’s resting against the wall behind him, and sees Louis palming himself absently through his jeans as he takes the last hit off the joint. Harry smirks, reaches a hand out to poke the side of Louis’ thigh.

“You alright there, Lou?”

“Hmm?” Louis turns to look at Harry, eyes nearly black in the bright floodlights.

“Let’s go to bed, yeah?”

Louis smirks, a lazy curl of lips, and says, “By bed, do you mean sex?”

Harry laughs and shakes his head, slides his palm over the inside of Louis’ thigh and leans in to murmur, “Yes, Lou, I mean sex.”

It’s still early enough that there isn’t anyone in their room, so Harry lets Louis strip him down and pin him to the mattress by his shoulders. He doesn’t argue when Louis tells him he wants rub off on his stomach, vaguely amused by his strange obsession with the butterfly as he watches the glow from the booklight on the wall glitter off the sheen of sweat covering Louis’ body and the smear of precome on his stomach from where Louis is rutting against him. It shouldn’t be hot, it should be weird, really, but Louis is so focused, brow furrowed, bottom lip pulled between his teeth as he rolls his hips, that Harry can barely catch his breath over how gorgeous he looks, and reaches around Louis to grasp his own cock, fits the palm of his other hand down over the top of Louis’ to pin him between his hand and his belly.

At the increased pressure and friction, Louis comes with a shudder and a gasp, eyes glistening as he stares down at the come on Harry’s stomach and chest. He leans back, still sitting on Harry’s stomach, so the head of Harry’s cock brushes the small of his back as Harry jerks himself off with quick, sharp tugs. And when Louis reaches down and smears his fingers through the come that’s cooling on Harry’s skin, uses it to trace the edges of the butterfly and fill in the wings, Harry tosses his head back and spills over his fist and Louis’ back.

Louis’ gaze flicks up to Harry’s and he wrinkles his nose, says, “Did you really have to do that?”

Harry huffs out a laugh, then pulls his hand back and deliberately wipes it across Louis’ bare chest. “You just came on my butterfly, I don’t think you have any room to talk, you freak. Now we’re even.”

“Ugh. Shower.”

They wrap themselves in towels and tip-toe across the hall to the bathrooms, crowd into a stall together. It’s a bit too small, but neither of them really minds. Harry lifts his left hand and wraps it around the top of the stall door so he won’t get the gauze covering his tattoo wet, tips his head back and lets Louis wash his hair for him. It’s almost enough to get him hard again, the way Louis massages the soap into his hair and scratches at his scalp, but he’s too worn out to do anything more than let out a blissful sigh and lean his head back even further for easier access.

They pass one of the Americans from the other day as they’re walking back across the hall, and she winks and gives them a thumbs up as she turns the corner into the bar. There’s someone asleep in one of the beds when they get back to their room, so they try to be as quiet as possible as they dig through their bags for clean pants, then climb back into bed.

“I need to put the cream on my tattoo,” Harry whispers as they sit in bed facing each other.

“Want me to do it?”

Louis’ face is cast mostly in shadow as he sits with his back to the booklight, but Harry can just make out the blue of one of his eyes. He nods. “Okay.”

Louis crawls over to the top of the lockers, where they’d tossed their jackets, to get the little tube of ointment out of Harry’s pocket, then settles back down in front of Harry, legs crossed. Harry lays his arm across Louis’ lap and watches him peel the plastic wrap and gauze away carefully, then turn his wrist toward the light.

“Oh.”

Louis ghosts his thumb over the little padlock, just close enough that Harry feels the whisper of skin on skin, but not enough that he’s actually touching it. He bites his lip as he watches Louis, wishes he could see his expression properly.

They’re silent for a while, and Harry watches Louis as he hunches over Harry’s arm and rubs the ointment into his skin carefully, fingers gentle where they’re wrapped around his wrist and as they press down lightly over the ink.

Harry’s voice is thick when he says, “I think that’s good,” and he thinks he sees disappointment flash in Louis’ eyes as he straightens up and lets go of Harry’s arm. “Thank you.”

Louis nods and still doesn’t say anything, doesn’t quite meet Harry’s eyes as he knees across the bed to put the tube back on top of the shelves and wipe his hands on the t-shirt he’d worn that day. Harry slips under the covers as he crawls back over, holds them up so Louis can get in, too, then turns onto his right side so that Louis can curl around him.

He reaches up to shut off the light, then splays his fingers against the pillow, palm down so his wrist doesn’t rub up against anything. He can feel Louis’ fingers rubbing over the butterfly on his stomach, face pressed into the crook of his neck, and he smiles, turns his head and whispers, “If you like tattoos so much, why don’t you have any yourself?”

Louis doesn’t answer for a minute, but Harry can feel the brush of his eyelashes against the side of his neck as he blinks, so he waits.

“Never really found anything I wanted to remember enough to put permanently on my body, I guess.”

They’re both quiet after that, and Harry can feel Louis relax slowly against him, knows when Louis has fallen asleep by the way his mouth goes slack against the skin of his shoulder and his breath puffs, slow and even, down over his shoulder blades. He’s not sure how long he lies awake, staring blankly at the wall and thinking about padlocks and bridges and ink and Louis, but by the time he falls asleep, the sounds from the bar have faded and the light creeping in under the curtains is gray with pre-dawn.

~~

The next day, they don’t get up until nearly noon. It’s bright in the room, sun shining around the edges of the curtains and filtering through the fabric so that the room is lit up, and Harry blinks against it as he comes awake slowly. When he turns over, he sees that Louis is already up, hair a mess as he flips through Harry’s guide book again.

Harry laughs, voice throaty and rough from disuse and sleep, and slurs, “What’re you reading about this time?”

Louis looks up from the book, eyes soft as he takes in Harry’s tumbled curls and heavy eyes. Harry’s sure he’s got pillow creases on his cheek, and his hair must be an absolute rat’s nest after going to sleep when it was still wet, but Louis just leans in and brushes a kiss over his forehead, then says, “Copenhagen.”

“Getting a little ahead of ourselves, are we?”

Louis shrugs. “Just reading, you know. That American girl, Megan, she said we should go to Helsingor.” He points to a photograph of a castle. “Apparently, it’s where Hamlet took place.”

“Cool.” Harry wraps his arms around Louis’ waist and buries his face against Louis’ hip, mumbles into his skin, “We’ll put it on the list.”

 

The rain had cleared overnight, so they stick to their plan to walk along Prisengracht and Emperor’s Canal. Louis grins as they wander the canals, tells Harry that he looks perfectly at home there, in his skinny jeans, plaid button down, and fedora. Harry rolls his eyes and shoves Louis with a mumble of, “‘M _not_ a hipster.”

But Louis just laughs some more, reaches out and pulls Harry close with his hand tucked into the crook of his elbow and promises, “But you’re a _good_ hipster. A cute hipster, even.” At Harry’s raised eyebrow, he rolls his eyes and says with a sigh, “Fine, a _gorgeous_ hipster.”

“With a healthy appreciation for life in a way that is completely unironic,” Harry tacks on with a nod.

They do a bit more shopping along the canals and send off a couple of postcards, but for the most part, they just enjoy the day. They stop in at cafes all along the canal for tea and pastries, and buy a couple of cheap sandwiches so that they can find a place to sit along the edge of one of the canals and feed the swans. One of the swans gets bold and nips at the toe of Louis’ trainer, and he squawks in outrage and scares them all off.

Harry laughs so hard his stomach aches, then shushes Louis and coaxes them back over with the lure of cold pastrami and soggy bread.

It starts to rain again as the sun slips behind the buildings, so they duck into another cafe for dinner and just sit at a table by the window and watch people hurry past, umbrellas bright in the street lamps, as they eat and drink and talk idly.

On Wednesday, they rent bikes and ride them all over the city. Harry keeps his phone tucked into his pocket as they go, picking turns at random and getting gloriously lost. They pass a few of the places they’ve already been and discover new places, and only turn the GPS on when the sun has set and night has settled over the city.

They return the bikes, too exhausted to do much more than grab dinner down the street from the hostel, shower, then crawl into bed and pass out.

Thursday is their last day in Amsterdam, and they indulge by getting up for breakfast, then heading straight out to the smoking patio to finish off the weed. They smoke two joints, then stumble back to their room, now empty of the other guests, and make out lazily until they doze off, then repeat the process after lunch. They wake up to Harry’s alarm just as the sun is starting to set, gather up their bags, check out, and walk to the train station.

It’s just over eleven hours to Copenhagen, and the train is empty enough that they get to spread out a bit. Louis leans against the window and Harry curls up on his side, head in Louis’ lap, and they’re both asleep within minutes of leaving the station.

~~

Copenhagen is just as cold as Amsterdam, the air damp and heavy with salt. They arrive with the sun, the sky a hazy pink as it rises over the harbor. What they can see of Copenhagen during the brief taxi ride from the train station to their hostel is beautiful, but Harry is having a hard time enjoying it. Arriving in Copenhagen means only one more week until home. Seven days left on the trip and seven days left with Louis.

Harry leans his head against the window and watches the city fly by, everything getting lighter by shades as the sun slowly rises. Their hostel is less than a mile from downtown, and they pass City Hall along the way, an enormous red brick building with a crenelated roof and turrets like a castle. The reception area of the hostel is a trendy looking bar already dotted with patrons hunched over steaming mugs of coffee and tea.

Their dorm is a clutter of beds, arranged at odd angles to fit five sets of bunks. There are only top bunks unclaimed, and they find two along the back wall, figure they’ll only be using one to sleep in anyway, so it doesn’t really matter. After tossing their bags onto one of the beds, Louis blinks up at Harry, dark circles under his eyes standing out in the bright light streaming in through the windows.

“Can we have a bit of a nap?”

“Of course,” Harry nods, and they toe off their shoes and climb the ladder, settle on top of the blankets still fully dressed. Louis looks exhausted, so Harry tugs him in against his chest and wraps both arms around him, dozes off with his face buried in Louis’ hair.

They wake up a few hours later, refreshed and ready to start exploring the city. The first stop on the agenda is City Hall, just a couple of blocks down. The square in front of the building is teeming with people walking to and from the buildings ringing it, lounging on the stairs or on benches, waiting in line at the various food carts scattered around. There is even a pair of boys with a drum kit set up right in the center of the square, playing something that Harry assumes is meant to be music, but sounds more akin to a stampede of elephants.

They tour the inside of the building, wide and open, with displays like a museum, then walk around the outside of the building to see the different statues. After the square, they walk to Tivoli Gardens, wander the park before choosing some of the rides. They stay away from the steeper rides at Harry’s insistence, stick with rides like the carnival swings, an open-air ferris wheel, and even take a spin on the carousel. They walk around the carousel, trying to pick the perfect rides before it starts. There are horses and sleighs and even a camel, but they find a giraffe halfway around with two seats on its saddle, so Harry helps Louis clamber up, then hefts himself up into the back seat and leans forward, chest pressed against Louis’ back so he can hold on to the pole.

The weather is perfect, cool and sunny, the air is filled with music and laughter, and Louis is warm in front of him, their hands interlocked around the pole; and even though the giraffe is incredibly uncomfortable and he’s still sleepy from the train ride, Harry thinks this might just be a perfect day. They spend hours at Tivoli, riding the rides and walking the grounds. They find peacocks wandering near one of the hidden fountains and ducks floating in one of the ponds, newly hatched ducklings trailing after their parents as they paddle around.

Harry and Louis leave Tivoli in the early evening and make their way to NyHavn to see the multicolored houses and cafes lining the canal. They buy sandwiches from a shop along the way, not really keen on paying for the overpriced food along the wharf, and find a place to sit on the edge of the water and eat, feet dangling between two moored boats. Afterward, they get ice cream and walk hand-in-hand down the street, taking pictures of the pretty buildings and some of the larger boats, and watching a little girl throw bits of crackers to some ducks in the water.

They stay in NyHavn until the sun has set and the lamps have been lit, the colorful buildings and the lights from restaurants and cafes reflecting off the still water of the canal. The restaurants are all still packed with tourists having dinner, so they don’t stay much longer, just enough to stand at the center of one of the little bridges and take a photo of themselves, the street stretching out behind them like a postcard.

~~

On Saturday, they take a day trip out to Helsingor, the setting of Hamlet. Helsingor is beautiful, the epitome of a picturesque Scandinavian village, set against the dramatic backdrop of Kronborg Castle and the narrow strip of water separating Denmark from Sweden.

The inside of the castle is gorgeous, checkerboard floors and golden chandeliers, mannequins dressed in Shakespearean garb, ornately carved pews in the castle’s chapel. The grounds are lovely as well, perfectly manicured lawns that lead right up to the water’s edge and a line of old cannons in the corner behind the castle, swans drifting lazily around the half-moat that hugs the front of the building.

They spend the rest of the day wandering the town, getting lost down tiny, cobblestone alleys lined with brightly painted houses, their postage stamp gardens overrun with flowers as tall as Harry, and stumbling onto little squares packed with outdoor cafes and shops with their doors thrown open in invitation.

By the time they get back to Copenhagen, their feet ache and they’re ready to fall into bed. They crowd into one of the shower stalls together, and Harry kisses Louis under the spray, skin slipping over skin, until they’re both hard and panting into the misty air. He takes them both in hand and jacks them off slowly, until Louis’ hands are scrabbling for purchase on the tiled wall and he’s lifting up onto his toes to try and urge Harry on. Harry teases him, backing down, then bringing him right back to the edge, and when he can feel that Louis is desperate, body taut like a bowstring, he drops to his knees and swallows him down. Harry keeps his eyes locked on Louis’ as he comes with a groan, knees buckling with the force of it so Harry has to wrap his arms around his thighs and hold him up.

When he staggers to his feet, Louis presses him back against the wall and curls his hand around Harry’s cock, brings him off quickly with a few tight tugs, then collapses against him, chests heaving against each other as they try to catch their breath.

They tumble into bed together, still damp with shower water but too exhausted to care, fall asleep with their limbs tangled and their faces so close on the pillow that Harry can feel the soft puff of Louis’ breath against his own lips.

~~

The next morning while they’re eating breakfast, Harry finds a new set of photos on his phone from the previous day. They’re of him, walking down different alleys in Helsingor, his back to the camera as he wanders the streets, bright afternoon sun glinting off of the white fedora. He looks a bit like a baby horse, all spindly legs and arms swinging at his side, but the photos are lovely, nonetheless. His chest aches as he thinks about Louis stopping to take the candids, wanting to capture those moments, and when Louis sits down at the table with a plate of pastries, Harry sets the phone aside and leans across it so he can kiss him, soft and sweet.

“What was that for,” Louis asks as Harry leans back, and Harry shrugs.

“Just felt like it.” He raises an eyebrow. “Is that okay with you?”

Louis laughs, then gets up and moves to the seat beside Harry, wraps a hand around the back of his neck and draws him in. “Of course it is, you idiot.”

Louis presses a quick, smacking kiss to Harry’s lips and one to each of his cheeks, the tip of his nose, before leaning back in his seat and grabbing a danish off the plate.

“Eat,” he commands, and Harry shoves the flutter of butterflies down and takes a croissant for himself.

Their first stop of the day is at the Round Tower, an observatory with a small museum inside and a winding brick ramp leading up to the observation deck. They chase each other up the ramp, laughing like children playing tag as they wind through other tourists making the climb, and burst out onto the deck, winded and still giggling. The deck is wide and ringed with wrought iron fencing, and the day is beautiful and clear. Harry tucks his fingers through the iron bars and looks out over the city.

City Hall is visible from one side, the ocean from the other, and Harry and Louis walk in circles around the edge, pointing out different landmarks that they’ve either visited or read about in the guide book.

After the tower, they walk to the Glyptoteket art museum and wander the exhibits of Mediterranean and French impressionist art. Part of the museum is a giant garden set up like a greenhouse, with towering trees and fountains and a domed glass ceiling, and after they’ve explored the museum, Harry and Louis perch on a bench facing the fountain and rest for a bit. Harry wraps his arm around Louis’ shoulders and tips his head to rest on top of Louis’ while they watch people wander in and out.

Once their feet have stopped aching, they catch a bus down south to Kastrup to visit the Blue Planet Aquarium. They get to the aquarium just in time to catch the trainers working with the sea lions, then wander the exhibits until it’s time for the sharks to be fed, and watch that, as well. They spend hours at the aquarium, then sit underneath the tank shaped like a tunnel and watch the fish and sharks swim all around them, giant sting rays resting on the glass overhead so they can see the arch of their mouths and the pumping of their spiracles.

Afterward, they take the bus back to Copenhagen and spend the evening on Grabrodretorv Square, right in the center of the city. Just like NyHaven, the buildings are all painted different colors, like a giant rainbow lining the square. It’s absolutely perfect out, cool and breezy, so they get some ice cream and find a bench underneath a tree where they can watch pigeons harass passersby and children chase each other across the cobblestones.

Harry is still working on his ice cream when Louis pops the bottom of his cone into his mouth, and he shies away when Louis pokes him in the side, cups his hand around his cone to protect it from Louis.

“Hey,” Louis says, tone indignant. “I’m not going to steal your ice cream! I just wanted to tell you that I really like Copenhagen.”

“Oh.” Harry relaxes and drops his hand onto Louis’ thigh. “Good, me too.”

“I wasn’t going to come here, I had to change my flight from Amsterdam to here, but I’m glad I did. It’s so pretty.” He tips his head back, and Harry mimicks the action so they can watch the sun winking down at them from between the leaves. “Also, I’m going to steal your ice cream.”

“What -” Harry pulls his arm away too late, and Louis snatches it out of his hand and takes a massive bite, laughing obnoxiously so that ice cream slides down his chin.

Harry wrinkles his nose as Louis chews the ice cream, ignoring the bit on his face.

“You’re disgusting,” he states, and when Louis just shrugs and flicks his tongue out in a failed attempt to catch the ice cream on his chin, Harry darts forward and licks it off for him.

“Ugh!” Louis pushes him away with a hand on his chest and rubs his face with the back of his palm. “Now who’s the disgusting one.”

Harry just grins at him and nips the cone back out of his hand so he can finish it off.

Ice cream finished, they walk around the square and the side streets to work it off before dinner, then pick a restaurant with outdoor seating so they can people watch and enjoy the weather.

“I want to sit outside as much as possible,” Louis says as they browse the menu.

“Why’s that?”

Louis raises an eyebrow at Harry. “We’re going back to England in five days, mate. The land of perpetual rain and gloom. I need to get my fill of the sun before we do.”

Harry tries not to frown at that, tries to enjoy Louis’ humor, but the thought of going back home is not nearly as appealing as he might have thought, after being away for more than two months. Without thinking, he stretches his leg out and hooks his foot around the back of Louis, locks their legs together under the table.

He can see Louis smile down at his menu, feels the toe of Louis’ trainer rub up and down the inside of his calf. He’s done a decent job, overall, of not thinking about it, Harry thinks, but it all crashes down on him, right in that moment, that in five days’ time, he won’t be able to do this anymore. Won’t be able to look up and see Louis sitting across from him, won’t be able to reach out and touch him, or hear his voice. He’s not sure how it’s happened, how he’s fallen quite so fast, but it’s like a physical ache inside him, and he ducks his head behind his menu and whispers, “I don’t want to go home, either.”

~~

Monday is a lazy day. When planning out their Copenhagen schedule on the train, Harry and Louis had decided that they had enough time in the city to give themselves easy days, had chosen one right in the middle to devote entirely to Frederiksberg Park. The park is enormous, with its own castle and winding bike paths, as well as canals that run through it, where visitors can take guided boat rides through the park.

They grab food from a little market near the hostel, then catch a bus to the park. They walk one side of the park and stumble upon a view of the elephants at the zoo across the road, so they sit in the grass for a while and watch them while they share a bottle of beer. Once the elephants have wandered away, they walk a bit more and find a lake behind a bank of trees to spread out and eat lunch, legs stretched out and tangled between them as watch ducks and geese float across the water and eat sandwiches and crisps.

Belly full, Harry looks around quickly to make sure there are no children around, then takes his shirt off and ball it up to use as a pillow as he lies back in the grass for a bit of sunbathing. He hears the grass rustle beside him, smiles when Louis lies down, as well, and links their pinkies together.

 

Harry comes awake very suddenly, the feeling that he’s late for something clawing at his throat. When he turns his head, he finds Louis lying on his side, chin propped up in his hand as he looks down at him. Harry frowns and scrubs his hands over his face, yawns hugely, then says, “Were you watching me sleep?”

Louis rolls his eyes and ducks his head to brush a kiss along the curve of Harry’s jaw. “You mumble in your sleep, did you know that?”

Harry shifts on the grass, suddenly uncomfortable at the thought of what he might have said. “Um. Yeah, I’ve always done that. Did I...say anything in particular?”

Louis shakes his head, a soft smile on his face as he reaches a hand out to trace the butterfly. “I couldn’t understand a word. Your diction is even worse when you’re sleeping. Who knew?”

“Twat,” Harry mutters as he bats Louis’ hand away, but it mostly comes out fond. He sits up and drags his shirt back on, then looks around. There are only a few other people sitting around the lake, an older couple across the water and a man with two enormous dogs a few meters away. He can see one of the paths through a gap in the trees, sees the sun flash off the spokes of a bicycle as it rides past.

“Hey.” Harry turns to Louis, drills a finger into his belly. “Do you want to rent bicycles?”

“Sure,” Louis chirps happily, so they gather up their rubbish and a few still sealed bottles of beer and tuck it all back into Harry’s satchel, then head back toward the park entrance.

They rent the bikes for a couple of hours, ride them tirelessly around the park, winding through trees and along the banks of small lakes, even through a flock of geese, at one point, that honk and flap their wings angrily as they scatter.

After they’ve returned the bikes, they find another shady spot to lie down and finish their beers, secluded enough that Harry can tug Louis on top of him so they can make out under the canopy of trees, with the sounds of ducks quacking and fountains splashing in the background.

~~

It rains on Tuesday, though it’s still bright and sunny out, so Harry and Louis don their ponchos and make their way out to Dyrehaven Park. Despite the rain, the ground inside the forest is relatively dry, and they manage to tug the hoods of their ponchos down as they walk through it.

It’s quiet and beautiful, the ground heavy with leaf litter that rustles quietly as they walk through the trees. Some of the trees have trunks wider than Harry’s arm span, and he and Louis take turns taking photos of each other with some of the bigger trees.

Harry is trying to frame a tree in, with Louis standing on top of the gnarled roots, when a small herd of deer wander past, led by an enormous stag with wide, branching antlers that look like they’re covered in a layer of velvet. Harry’s heart leaps into his throat and he takes a few frantic photos of Louis with the deer in the background, then whispers, “Louis.”

“Haz?”

One of the does whips her head around to stare at them through the trees, though the deer linger, standing in a bit of dappled sunlight as they watch Harry and Louis warily. They look like a painting, and Harry takes photo after photo, can’t really wrap his head around the fact that this is happening right now. Louis walks slowly up to his side and watches the deer meander through the forest while Harry continues to take photos.

After a few minutes, he laughs and pushes Harry’s hands down, says, “Babe, stop taking pictures and just watch them.”

Louis burrows into his side while they watch the deer in silence, and only once they’re out of sight does Harry blow out an unsteady breath.

“Shit,” he whispers. “Did you see the size of that stag?”

“Yeah,” Louis murmurs into the side of Harry’s neck. Harry can feel him smiling, the apples of his cheeks rounded out with it, and he pinches Louis’ side when he mumbles, “I could have taken him.”

They stumble across a few more clusters of deer as they make their way back toward the entrance, and every time, Harry just shakes his head in wonder. They’re bigger than he thought they would be, this close-up. And it’s not like he’s never seen deer before, he’s been to zoos, but it’s different, seeing them in the wild like this, and so unafraid of him and Louis.

Louis threads their fingers together as they pass their fourth herd of deer, this one a group of does and fawns, the babies knobbly-kneed and awkward on their hooves, and Harry whispers, “I want to stay here forever.”

It’s stopped raining by the time they reach the entrance, and alongside gate to the forest is a gate to Bakken, the world’s oldest amusement park. They spend the afternoon at the park, chasing each other in bumper cars, making themselves dizzy on the spinning cups, riding the carnival swings, and playing laser tag. They eat mass amounts of junk food and waste too much money on the carnival games, though Louis manages to win a tiny teddy bear playing ring toss, which he presents to Harry with much thoroughfare, and then demands kisses in return.

Stuffed to the brim with cotton candy and hotdogs, Harry and Louis catch the bus back into town and get off near Stroget. Too full to actually eat anything, they wander the pedestrian street, popping in and out of different shops and enjoying the sunshine and the buskers set up along the center of the walkway, singing and doing magic tricks and posing like statues. They fall into bed that night too exhausted to do more than kiss sleepily, then curl around each other and pass out.

~~

On Wednesday, they get up late and have a relaxed breakfast in the bar downstairs, then take a bus up north to the Experimentarium, a science museum geared toward education by way of experimentation, with exhibits to test your strength and your perception, your hearing and your skills at problem solving. They spin around in little plastic bowls and draw pictures with magnets in a bowl of liquid magnetite, read about wind turbines and generate electricity on stationary bikes. They spend almost an hour looking at different optical illusions, until they have headaches and have to take a break in the cafe.

“This is the best museum I’ve ever been to,” Louis declares, and Harry laughs and kicks at his ankle.

“You’re such a child. You know this is a museum for children, right?”

“Hey!” Louis kicks back, then traps Harry’s foot between his own and swings them back and forth under the table. “You’re having just as much fun as I am, Styles, don’t deny it.”

“I didn’t deny anything,” Harry says with a smile, and he props his elbow up on the table, cups his chin in his hand and leans toward Louis. “You’re cute when you’re having fun.”

Louis wrinkles his nose. “I’m not _cute_.”

“Right,” Harry laughs. “Of course not. No, you’re very rugged and manly.”

Louis pushes out of his chair and leans over the table, tugs Harry forward with a hand fisted in the collar of his jumper.

“And don’t you forget it,” he says, in what he probably thinks is a menacing tone, but it’s all lost on Harry when he ends the sentence with a brief, hard kiss.

After they’ve eaten, they play with jigsaw puzzles and different brain teasers, then spend some time messing around in the sound exhibit. They save the best exhibit for last, though, a section of the museum devoted to bubbles. They spend ages building bubble walls around each other and creating enormous bubbles of all different shapes, taking pictures of the rainbows cast in the film and of each others’ faces, distorted through the soapy walls.

After the museum, they visit the Kastellet to see the fortress and check out the windmill and the Gefion Fountain, with a short side trip to the Little Mermaid statue on the shore behind the fort. Afterward, cold and windswept from standing on the beach, they take another bus out to tour the Carlsberg Brewery, then end the day with an evening shore excursion.

It’s cold on the little boat, and Louis burrows into Harry’s side, presses his frozen nose down over Harry’s collarbone so that every time he blinks, Harry can feel the brush of eyelashes against his skin. He wraps his arms around Louis’ shoulders and draws him closer on the bench, buries his face in Louis’ hair and looks out at Copenhagen and the jewel-bright water lapping gently at the shore.

By the time they get back to their hostel, Harry and Louis have come down from the high of the day. It hits Harry, very suddenly and a bit like a freight train, that they only have one day left. He barely talks during dinner, and Louis doesn’t attempt to engage him. Instead, they spend the meal sneaking glances at each other and finding silly excuses to touch - a tap on the wrist to pass the bread, a brush of hands when reaching for their glasses, a brief tagle of fingers when handing over the butter tray.

Still salt-sticky from the boat ride, they squeeze into the shower together to wash up. Neither of them are up for anything more than sleepy kissing, and on an unspoken agreement, they crawl into bed and burrow under the blankets. Harry curls around Louis’ back, knees tucked up behind Louis’, hides his face in the back of Louis’ neck and strokes his hand up and down his side until he can feel Louis’ breathing slow and even out, lets the rhythm of it lull him to sleep.

~~

Thursday is subdued. They wake up quietly, brush their teeth crowded together over a shared sink, then walk to Rosenborg Castle. It’s cold and overcast out, and they walk with their arms linked, hands tucked into the pockets of their coats and heads ducked for protection against the wind.

The castle is beautiful, still outfitted with the original furnishings, and Harry and Louis use the audio guides as they wander through the different rooms and down to the treasury to see the Crown Jewels. They stand in front of a display case holding a heavy gold necklace encrusted with emeralds, and Harry nudges Louis with his elbow, aims a lopsided grin at him.

“Buy me one of these?”

Louis looks up at Harry, then back down at the necklace and matching earrings, an elaborate tiara perched on a shelf above them.

“Sorry, love, I think that’s above my pay grade.” He knocks their shoulders together. “It would look lovely with your eyes, though, I’m sure.”

Even though it’s gray and dreary out, they wander the castle gardens for a bit, walk underneath ivy-laden arbors and along carefully sculpted box hedges, through rose gardens and beds of bright purple lupine, and down paths lined with strange, towering trees that have been shaped like giant, leafy cones.

Finished with the gardens, they walk toward the shore and end up at Amaliehaven, a small garden sandwiched between the Amalienborg Palace and a canal. It’s gloomy enough out that there aren’t too many people around, and Harry picks a spot on the low wall ringing the canal, where he and Louis can kick their heels against the stones and listen to the fountain behind them.

Louis lies down on the wall and settles his head in Harry’s lap, and Harry turns his face up to the clouds, closes his eyes and listens to the rush of water and the chirping of birds as he fiddles with Louis’ hair.

It’s not a terribly exciting afternoon, but it’s peaceful and suits their moods, Louis’ hand curled around the top of Harry’s thigh, fingers pressed tight against the denim as he clings to his leg and stares out at the gunmetal water. They sit out there for hours, until the sun starts to set and Harry’s bum has gone numb from sitting on a cold stone wall all afternoon, and they work out the kinks in their muscles as they walk back to the hostel.

They stop on Stroget for dinner, eat at a tiny little cafe where they drink Danish beer and eat curried meatballs. Louis gives Harry his cucumber salad and Harry lets Louis steal a meatball in exchange, and when Louis settles his feet on top of Harry’s boots under the table, Harry hides a smile in his beer.

When they get back to the hostel, Harry nudges Louis, says, “Hey, let me have your key.”

Brow furrowed in confusion, Louis hands Harry his keycard, and Harry walks over to reception and trades them in for new ones. When he walks back over to Louis, Louis is staring at him, baffled, and Harry scratches the back of his neck, says, suddenly nervous, “I, uh. I changed our room to a single for tonight. Just, you know, so we could maybe talk and not have to worry about waking anyone up.”

He chances a look at Louis to gauge his reaction, bites his lip at the blank look on Louis’ face.

“I hope that’s alright,” Harry mumbles, nerves fluttering madly in his belly, to the point that he feels like he might throw up.

“Yeah,” Louis says softly. “Alright, yeah, that’s good.”

They grab their bags from the dorm and move into a smaller room two levels up. It’s tiny, actually, just a narrow space with one set of bunk beds, a tiny little desk, and a window overlooking Vandkunsten Square, but the walls are painted a cheery orange and it’s blissfully quiet.

Harry cracks the window open and drops his duffle onto the floor next to the radiator, looks around aimlessly. He’s at a loss of what to do, now that they’re alone, and Louis is just standing at the head of the bed, looking at him quietly. All of the sudden, it hits him that it looks a lot like he got them a private room so they could have sex on their last night.

He looks up, eyes wide, and says, “Just so you know, I didn’t get this room just so -”

“I know, Harry,” Louis interrupts with a hint of a smile. “Don’t worry, I know.”

“Oh.” Harry relaxes, shoulder slumping with relief. “Good. Well, um. Do you want to... shower?”

“Sure.”

They gather their toiletries and walk quietly to the showers across the hall. They’re a bit larger than the ones downstairs, and there’s actually room to turn around, even with the two of them crammed into one stall. They take their time, wash their hair and scrub down, and Louis pulls Harry into a kiss while soap runs down their shoulders in foamy rivulets, kisses him till the water runs cold and they have to shut it off, goosebumps along their chests and arms in the cool air.

It’s a bit of a novelty, having a private room after more than two months of crowded dormitories, and they take the opportunity to put off getting dressed. Louis lounges on the bed with a towel wrapped around his waist, and Harry walks around naked while he checks himself into his flight on his phone, then hands it to Louis so he can do the same. They’re booked on separate airlines, and Harry’s flight leaves an hour before Louis’, but the flights are close enough that they’ve decided to just head to the airport together.

Still inexplicably nervous about being alone with Louis, Harry spreads his towel out on the carpet and sits down to organize his duffel, takes everything out and folds it into stacks of clean and dirty, then picks out a pair of jeans and a shirt to wear on the plane and places everything else back into the bag. Louis watches him, sprawled out on his belly on the bed with his head hanging over the side, expression amused as he watches the way Harry folds everything so precisely, then stacks them in order of type, from trousers to jumpers to shirts.

“You’re a bit mental, you know that?” Louis asks, fingers trailing over the tops of Harry’s shoulders as Harry works the last stack of clothes into his bag.

Harry quirks an eyebrow at him.

“Just because I don’t ball everything up and shove it into my bag without looking twice doesn’t make me mental, Lou.” Louis just smiles lazily at him and drags his fingers down Harry’s spine. Harry suppresses a shiver, then says, “Can I fix your bag?”

Louis snorts, but nods, drops his hand and watches Harry crawl, completely naked, across the floor and drag his bag back over by the radiator. It doesn’t take Harry long to organize the bag. He has Louis tell him what’s clean and what’s dirty, folds everything neatly and arranges it in the duffle in precise stacks, then sets Louis’ outfit for the next day aside as he tucks Louis’ spare trainers in along the stacks of clothing. He zips the bag shut when he’s finished, pats a hand over the top, and smiles up at Louis.

“There, all finished.”

“You know that’s all going into the wash when I get home, right?”

Harry shrugs and leans across the small expanse of carpet between the window and the bed, murmurs, “I’m sure your mum will be very impressed when she opens the bag to do the washing for you, though.”

“You’re not wrong,” Louis says through a grin, then he closes the gap between them.

Harry hums as Louis works his fingers into his still-damp hair, smiles into the kiss when Louis huffs out an annoyed breath and says, “Get up here, Haz, this is killing my neck.”

Harry giggles into the side of the mattress, then scrambles up onto his feet and clambers onto the bed, crawls over Louis and drapes himself over him like a blanket. Louis trails his fingers up and down Harry’s sides, slides them around to smooth up his back and cup his shoulderblades.

“You’re well fit,” he murmurs, then, eyes locked on Harry’s as he sets his teeth into Harry’s shoulder.

Harry lets loose a little groan, ducks his head down for another kiss and whispers, “Right back at’cha.”

Now that they don’t have to worry about anyone sleeping in the next bed, they don’t hold back. Louis rolls Harry over and sucks bright purple bruises into the side of his neck and down his chest, until Harry is writhing on the mattress, breathy little moans and whimpers falling from his mouth as Louis marks him up, from his neck to the soft curves of his hips, pointedly avoiding his dick.

He looks up at Harry as he eases his way down Harry's body, then leans in and sucks another bruise high on the inside of Harry’s thigh until he’s gasping, toes flexing against the back of Louis' leg where he’s fit his foot into the dip of Louis' knee. Harry is tugging on Louis' hair, desperate to get his mouth on his cock, but Louis won’t budge, reaches up and pulls Harry's hands away gently and sets them down on the bed to curl into the sheets.

Louis is hard, himself, dick tenting the front of the towel still wrapped around his waist, and he sits back on his heels, tossing the towel over the side of the bed, wrapping a hand around himself, and giving his cock a few tugs as he looks down at Harry. Louis is all golden skin, sheened with sweat and poised over Harry, eyes dark and lips parted, so gorgeous he makes Harry's chest ache.

“Fuck,” Harry mutters, and he leans over the side of the bed for his phone, snaps a picture before Louis can figure out what he’s doing, then tosses it to the foot of the bed. He can feel the fingertips of Louis' free hand gliding up his thigh, trying to crook his knee so he can settle between his legs, but Harry resists, tightening his legs around Louis and just leaving them there.

He just wants to touch Louis as much as possible, while he still has him, but Louis keeps nudging him, eyes on Harry's face as one hand still works his dick slowly. Finally, he says, voice wrecked, “Harry.”

Harry raises his eyes to Louis’. They’re nearly black, pupils blown wide, and Harry bites his lip against a stab of lust.

“Yeah, Lou,” he whispers, and Louis reaches a hand out, wraps it around the side of Harry's neck, thumb resting along the underside of his jaw.

“Please can I fuck you. I want to feel you.”

Harry groans at the unexpected words, the sentiment behind them despite what he's asking. He moves to part his legs so Louis can get started immediately, but then pauses when he realizes -

“Shit. Can’t, Lou.”

“Why not,” Louis demands, eyes a bit wild as he looks down at Harry. His fringe is matted to his forehead, hair sticking up in the back, and he’s got a bead of sweat sliding down his temple, and Harry wants to devour him.

“We don’t have anything.”

“Fuck,” Louis hisses. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

He casts his eyes around the room, as if looking to see if the hostel has left them a complimentary bottle of lube somewhere, but then his face lights up and he says, “Wait. No, we do, it’s. Haz, it’s in my bag. From Amsterdam. The box with the -”

“Lou, that was a souvenir.”

Louis rolls his eyes as he pushes at Harry's legs, halfway drawn up around his hips already.

“What am I going to do with a souvenir packet of lube, Haz, honestly. _Let me g_ _et the box._ ”

Harry chews on his lip as he stares up at Louis, hopeful and unsure at the same time.

“Are you sure?”

“Fucking positive, let go so I can go _get_ it.”

Harry nods and drops his legs to the mattress, watches as Louis scrambles off the bed and walks over to the window so he can dig through his bag for the little box from the condom shop in Amsterdam. He finds it tucked into the corner, and he rifles through it, pulls out the tiny sachet of lube and the ridiculous gold condom, then turns back to the bed.

He curses when he catches Harry pumping his own cock lazily as he watches him, eyes dark and expression appreciative as he looks him over. Louis grins as he knees up onto the bed, ducking his head so he won’t hit it on the top bunk.

“Like what you see?”

Harry shrugs, a poor attempt at nonchalance when his expression is hungry.

“You’re alright. I’ve seen better.”

“Twat,” Louis mutters, but it comes out more fond than anything. He drops the packets onto Harry's stomach, then wraps his hands around Harry's ankles and tugs his legs apart so he can settle between them.

He takes a moment to just look at Harry, the long lines of his body and the way his cock is resting, flushed and hard, against his belly. His fingers are already curled into the blankets and he’s got his knees bent, bracketing Louis' body.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Louis murmurs, and he leans down to kiss Harry, desperate and filthy as he wraps a hand around Harry's cock and gives it a few tugs.

“Come on,” Harry mutters into Louis' mouth, impatience warring with overwhelming arousal, and he pinches Louis' side, grabs the packet of lube off his own stomach and tears it open with trembling fingers. “Give me your hand.”

Louis responds immediately, sits back on his haunches and presents his hand to Harry, fingers spread so that Harry can slick them up.

“Smells good,” Harry hums, and Louis lifts the packet to read the label.

“Vanilla.”

“Yum,” Harry agrees, stomach churning with nerves and anticipation as Louis settles onto his belly between Harry's legs. He settles a hand on Louis' shoulder, fingernails digging in just a bit when Louis cups his side with his clean hand, thumb stroking soothingly at the skin stretched taut over his hip, then slides the fingers of his right hand over Harry's rim. Harry's thighs tremble and he hisses, fingers twisting into the sheets.

“You alright?” Louis asks, eyes on Harry’s face as he freezes.

“Yeah,” Harry mutters, suppressing a shiver. “‘S just cold. Go on.”

He spreads his legs wider, and Louis presses a kiss to the inside of his thigh as he slides the tip of his finger past his rim, stops once he’s buried past the first knuckle and looks up at Harry again. He’s got his eyes closed and his brow furrowed, concentrating on relaxing, but he nods his head when Louis says his name, so Louis presses on, slides his finger in past the second knuckle and waits for Harry to adjust. It doesn't take long, but Louis just waits, wanting to be careful with him.

“Louis, please,” Harry says after a moment. There's impatience jittering under his skin again, shoving all nerves to the side. “You don’t have to be so careful, I’m good.”

Louis brushes another kiss over his thigh, then complies, opens him up slowly until Harry is pushing back onto his fingers and clutching desperately at the blankets. Louis watches him, studies the way his flush has spread down his chest, blending with the angry red bruises from Louis' mouth, the way the head of his dick is slick with precome, the white pressure points where his teeth are digging into his bottom lip, an automatic gesture after weeks of having to stifle any noises that have tried to slip out.

“Haz, are you -”

“Yeah, Lou, I’m ready, do it.”

Louis scrambles to comply, reaches for the condom wrapper and tears it open with his teeth, fingers too slippery for it. Before he can put it on, though, Harry is sitting up and nipping it out of his hands, and Louis watches him roll it down over his cock, tries not to buck up into the tight curl of his fist as he spreads more lube down his length. Harry lays back and nods at him, throws his arms back to grip the metal frame of the bed when Louis carefully folds his leg back against his chest and lines himself up.

“Okay?” Louis whispers, and Harry nods quickly, eyes fluttering shut when Louis pushes in slowly. Even after three fingers, it aches in the best way possible, and watches Louis' brow furrow as he concentrate on not going too quickly. His vision has gone blurry with pleasure by the time Louis bottoms out, then stills, waits for Harry to adjust. He doesn't need it though, loves the stretch. He taps Louis' hip and jerks his chin, wordlessly asking for more.

Louis goes slow at first, watches the way Harry's body moves as he pulls out nearly all the way, then presses back into him in one smooth, easy stroke, listens to the soft noises Harry makes every time he does. It's overwhelming, the feel of Louis inside of him, around him, and he can't resist the urge to touch Louis, to feel the play of muscles in his arms and back as he braces himself over him. Harry uncurls his hands from around the bars of the bed and wraps his arms around Louis' shoulders, hands spread wide across the center of his back, and draws him down into a kiss.

“Harder,” he mumbles into Louis' mouth, and, more than happy to oblige, Louis picks up the pace, fucks him hard enough that the bed creaks and their kiss turns into nothing more than lips brushing as they pant into each others’ mouths. It’s been months since he’s been with anyone like this, and Louis is gorgeous, the feel of Louis inside of him, filling him up, almost too much to bear, and Harry can already feel his orgasm creeping up, chest tight with it.

“Lou,” he gasps out as he hitches his legs higher around Louis' waist, head dropping back onto the pillow. “Touch me,” he begs, so Louis shifts onto his elbow so he can reach between them and wrap his hand around Harry’s cock, barely gives it a handful of strokes before Harry is arching back and coming over his fist, lips parted around a moan.

Louis' rhythm falters, and he moves to pull out, but Harry shakes his head and tightens his legs around Louis' waist, keeping him there. Louis groans into the side of Harry’s neck, moves most of his weight onto his knees so he can curl his hands around the underside of Harry’s thighs. He rolls his forehead against the side of Harry neck when Harry drags his nails up his back, thrust once, twice, and then he’s coming, entire body shaking with it.

Harry wraps his arms around Louis, squeezing him close as Louis collapses onto him, chest heaving and arms shaking. He’s still trembling when Harry drops his legs to the mattress, and after a moment, Louis pulls out slowly, tugs the condom off, ties it, and tosses it toward the rubbish bin under the window before collapsing onto the bed beside Harry. Harry turns into him immediately, slides one hand up Louis' back to curve over the top of his shoulder and pull him close.

They kiss for what feels like hours, until the sounds of the hostel have settled and their eyelids are heavy with sleep, then they use Louis’ towel to clean off and slip under the blankets, pressed together head to toe, and fall asleep.

~~

It’s raining when Harry wakes up the next morning, the sky gray and heavy with clouds that swirl angrily across the sky. Harry’s entire body aches, and he imagines is feeling it too, so he wakes him up by pressing kisses to his cheeks, his forehead, the tip of his nose, his eyelids, over and over until Louis is grumbling sleepily and curling his fingers around Harry’s shoulder.

Harry thinks he’s going to push him away and roll over, try to go back to sleep, but Louis’ eyes slide open instead, the color of periwinkles and blurry with sleep, and he smiles softly.

“Morning,” he mumbles, and Harry ducks his head, hides his own smile against Louis’ temple.

They lie in bed for a bit, wrapped around each other in silence. The only noises in the room are the soft sounds of their breathing, the patter of rain on the window pane, and the distant splash as cars drive through puddles. It’s peaceful, and Harry doesn’t want to get up. They have to, though, need to get ready and head to the airport, so after a while, Harry slides his hand down Louis’ back and pats his side before pulling away.

“We should probably get up.”

“Yeah,” Louis says quietly as he blinks up at Harry, then shakes his head and repeats, “yeah.”

They slip out of bed and into their clothes, then gather their toiletries and head across the hall to the bathroom to wash up. Harry can’t stop looking at Louis, sneaking glances in the mirror and  every time he does, Louis reaches his free hand out to trail over Harry's hip, down the dip of his spine, across the back of his neck. Every time they touch, Louis smiles around the handle of his toothbrush, small like a secret, and Harry’s heart flutters.

They take their bags with them down to reception, crowd onto the same side of one of the booths and order tea with bread and jam. Harry curls into Louis' side as they wait, and Louis drapes his arm along the back of the booth, bends to press a kiss to the top of Harry’s shoulder. They stay huddled together as they eat, though they don’t speak - just touch each other randomly, Harry’s hand on the top of Louis' thigh, Louis' fingers brushing over Harry’s shoulder, Harry’s cheek pressing briefly against Louis' chest.

After they’ve finished eating and have checked out of the hostel, the guy behind the desk calls them a cab, and they wait under the little overhang. It’s only a twenty minute drive to the airport in the morning traffic, and Harry stares out the window at the city, rain coming down in sheets, his hand splayed on the seat between him and Louis.

Partway through the drive, he feels Louis’ hand come down on top of his, fingers slotting down into the gaps between his own, and his stomach clenches painfully at the thought that this is one of the last times they’ll ever hold hands.

The taxi driver hauls their bags up onto the curb for them and waves them off with a friendly smile, and they wander through the airport in search of the ticketing booths.

“Hey,” Harry cups a hand around Louis’ elbow, jerks his chin to the side. “Mine is over there. Want to meet by security when we’re done?”

Louis nods, and before Harry can walk away, he lifts up onto his toes and presses a quick kiss to Harry’s lips, murmurs, “See you in a bit.”

 

Security is slow in the international terminal, but Harry doesn’t mind. It gives him time to hold Louis’ hand, gives Louis time to rub the tip of his nose against Harry’s collarbone as they shuffle forward in increments.

Their flights are only a few gates apart, but Harry has less than a half hour before he needs to board, so Louis follows him to his gate, drops into an empty seat and drags Harry down onto his lap.

“Lou,” Harry protests, laughing as he tries to get up. “We're too heavy for these chairs, let me sit next to you.”

But Louis just shakes his head and tightens his arms around him, buries his face in Harry’s chest. His voice is muffled by the fabric of Harry’s jumper when he says, “We're fine. Promise.”

Harry gives in and relaxes into Louis, cards a hand through his hair and murmurs, “You'll catch me if the chairs collapse, won't you? You are rugged and manly,  after all.”

“Hey,” Louis whispers as he tips his head back to look up at Harry. His eyes are wide, leached of color in the harsh overhead lights.

“Hi yourself,” Harry says back, a sad smile curving his lips as he tugs on a lock of hair behind Louis’ ear. He swallows around the lump in his throat, says, voice thick, “So. This was...”

“Fun,” Louis finishes, and Harry nods.

“Fun,” he echoes. He doesn’t want to get maudlin, is always getting too emotional in public, so he tries to keep the mood light, pokes Louis in the shoulder and says, “You know, for a stalker, you turned out to be a decent travel partner.”

Louis gasps in outrage and leans back in the seat.

“I am _not_ a stalker, how very dare you!”

“You did approach me in that shop in Barcelona, then followed me around for the rest of the day, I’m just saying.”

“You know, if I hadn’t stepped in, your sister would have been stuck with a pair of starfish earrings.” He widens his eyes and emphasises, “ _Starfish_ , Haz.”

“Hey, starfish are _nice_. They’re pretty.”

“I’m sure they’re lovely, but no one over twelve wants to wear them, love. Trust me.”

“Fine,” Harry concedes with a grumble, and he slumps against Louis’ chest. They’re quiet for a few minutes while they watch the first class passengers line up at the gate. One of the flight attendants comes over the loudspeaker to announce the start of boarding, and Harry feels panic claw its way up his throat, turns to Louis with wide eyes.

“Hey,” Louis says, voice soft as he rubs Harry’s back. “You know, you’ve only given me like one of the photos we’ve taken this whole trip.”

Harry swallows, the sound of it loud, despite the constant drone of conversation around them.

“I’ll email them to you,” he forces out, and Louis nods, satisfied. “Hey, do you think -”

“Write down your phone number for me,” Louis interrupts, and Harry sighs, relieved that Louis said it first. He bends over to pull his travel diary out of his carry-on, tears a piece of paper out from the back and scribbles his name and phone number down, then hands it to Louis.

“Do you want to...” He tugs his phone out of his pocket, but Louis smiles sheepishly at him.

“I already put it in there.”

“Oh,” Harry says, surprised. He stares down at the phone blankly for a moment, then says belatedly, “Good.”

The flight attendant calls out the ten rows at the back of the plane for boarding, and Harry looks down at his ticket. His heart sinks as he realizes he’s in that group and he flicks a glance at Louis before standing up, smooths his hands over his jeans nervously, then scratches the back of his neck.

“Well... that’s me.”

“Right.” Louis just sits there for a moment, like he’s not sure what to do, then he stands up, crowds into Harry’s space and wraps his arms around Harry’s waist. Harry’s go around Louis’ shoulders immediately, and he squeezes Louis close, buries his face in Louis’ hair and gives himself a moment to just breathe him in.

When he pulls back, he has to clear his throat a few times, thumbs over his shoulder awkwardly and says, “I guess I should...”

Louis nods and steps back, watches him stoop down to grab his carry on.

“Text me,” he demands.

Harry nods, whispers, “Of course.”

He sees Louis’ eyes shift to look over his shoulder, then Louis’ saying, “I think you’re up, mate.”

“Right.” He stares at Louis for another moment, then shakes his head, drops his gaze to the floor. He can barely get the word out around the lump in his throat. “Right.”

Louis reaches a hand out to rub Harry’s arm. “Have a good flight, yeah?

“Yeah.” Harry drags his gaze up from the floor. He can do this. They’ve only know each other two months, it’s not a big deal. It’s _not_. He clears his throat again, says in a deliberately calm and clear voice, “Yeah, you too, Lou. I’ll see you around, okay?”

And then, after one last nod from Louis, Harry turns away and walks up to the gate. He only lets himself look back once, as the attendant is scanning his ticket. Louis is still standing by the seat, hands tucked into his pockets and elbows locked as he rocks up onto his toes and then back down onto his heels anxiously.

As the flight attendant hands him back the ticket, Harry gives him a little wave, smiles at the little kiss Louis blows him, then walks out onto the jet bridge and gets on the plane. He finds his seat in the third to last row, sandwiched between the window and a little girl that looks like she’s about eight.

Harry tucks his bag under the seat in front of him, then buckles his seatbelt and stuffs his earphones into his ears. He hesitates for a moment before calling up the ‘train jamz’ playlist he had made when they left Barcelona two months ago, presses shuffle, and leans his head against the window. It’s streaked with rain, blurry enough that all he can make out is the fuzzy outline of trucks and airport employees, and Harry thinks it suits his mood perfectly, this weather.

He’s asleep before the plane takes off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I messed with the tattoo timeline a bit, sorryyyy. ~Suspension of disbelief~ etc etc. One more chapter, woo! You guys are amazing, thank you SO much for all of the comments and kudos, you make me want to write faster! !!!!


	9. Chapter 9

When Harry lands in London three hours later, the weather is much like what he had left behind in Copenhagen - gray and rainy, with a bite to the wind, despite the fact that it’s only August.

His mum is waiting for him when he gets out of baggage claim, and she hugs him so tight he thinks he might have a few cracked ribs. But the truth is, he hugs her back just as hard, his face buried in her neck like he used to do as a child, so he doesn’t complain. As much as he had been dreading coming home, he’s missed his family.

Already anticipating a barrage of questions, Harry loads his bag into the boot of the car and slumps into the passenger seat with a sigh, says pointedly, “I’m completely knackered.”

His mum hums sympathetically and brushes his hair back from his forehead as she pulls out of the parking garage, and, not wanting to talk or even _think_ about his trip just yet, Harry presses his forehead to the window and pretends to fall asleep. He manages to actually doze off somewhere just outside of London, the sounds of rain spattering the windshield and his mum singing quietly along with the radio lulling him into a light sleep.

It’s still raining when she wakes him up three hours later, but they’re sitting in the driveway of his house, and his stepfather Robin is rushing down the walkway, shoulders hunched against the rain, to ruffle Harry’s hair and grab his bag from the boot. It’s cool in the house, and smells so familiar that Harry can already feel his muscles unlocking, and he crouches down to pet the cat absently while letting himself relax into the feeling of being home.

“Do you want some tea?”

Harry shakes his head at his mum, smiles gratefully at Robin as he drags the duffel into the kitchen, and says quietly, “Thanks mum, but I think I’m just going to go to sleep.”

The first thing Harry does when he gets to his room is turn on his computer and collect all of the trip photos into a zip file. He showers while it’s compressing, and when he’s done, he sends it off to Louis with a short message:

 

 

> _Hey Lou,_
> 
> _Here are all of the photos from the trip. Looks like Copenhagen was preparing us for English weather! I hope you had a nice flight, talk to you soon._
> 
> _Harry .xx_

 

He takes just enough time to send off a few texts to his friends, then crawls into bed, tugs the blankets up over his head, and falls asleep.

~~

The weekend passes in a strange, gray haze. He and Louis had gotten decent amounts of sleep most nights while traveling, but the months of moving from city to city and running from place to place have caught up with him, and Harry sleeps for most of it. He doesn’t sleep well, not used to sleeping alone after so many months of sharing with Louis, so when he’s not sleeping, he spends most of his time in his room to spare his parents his rotten moods.

He checks his phone and email obsessively, waiting for a response from Louis, and ignores texts from his friends, only goes downstairs for meals. He catches himself at lunch on Saturday when he swings his leg out to hook Louis’ ankle and finds the spot across from him empty. It makes his chest ache, and he pushes his sandwich away untouched.

Gemma comes home on Monday, and Harry lets her convince him to go swimming for a couple of hours, then cuddles up with her on the sofa and watches telly for the rest of the day. He only half-pays attention, though, the other half of his mind still on his phone, and eventually, Gemma snatches it out of his hands, shoves it between the sofa cushions, and tells him he can’t have it back till after supper.

“You’re not my mum,” Harry mutters, and Gemma rolls her eyes.

“And you’re being ridiculous. Whatever it is you’re waiting for can do just that. If you don’t want to watch Master Chef, just say so and I’ll put something else on, but stop being rude.”

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, and he burrows into Gemma’s side by way of apology.

When she hands him back his phone (before supper, because she’s too nice to hold out that long), he has three missed texts from Liam and an email from one of his professors, but nothing from Louis.

~~

His first week home, Harry composes dozens of text messages to Louis, but erases them without sending every time. He’s not sure why he’s so anxious about it, so reluctant to be the first one to text, but Louis hasn’t emailed him back yet, and he’s unsure of whether it means that Louis is just busy, or that Louis doesn’t want to talk to him anymore.

By Wednesday, Louis still hasn’t made contact. Harry has managed to work his way down to only a handful of unsent texts a day, but his mum has had enough with him and his moods.

“Harry.”

Harry jerks his head up from where he’s been staring down at his phone, finger hovering over the ‘send’ key on a message that simply reads, ‘ _hey_.’ Not his finest work, but he knows he won’t send it anyway, so he’s not worried. He blinks up at his mum. She’s standing in the doorway of his bedroom with her hands on her hips, the corners of her mouth turned down into a faint frown.

“You need to go back to work.”

Harry’s brow furrows in confusion and he says, “Why? I’m leaving in a month.”

Anne rolls her eyes and walks into the room, perches on the edge of the bed and grips Harry’s shoulder.

“Six weeks. And I cannot have you moping around this house, staring at your phone waiting for it to ring for six weeks. Go back to work, babe. Simon said he’ll always be happy to have you back, even if it’s just for Easter hols, and six weeks is a lot longer than that.”

“I don’t think -”

“Too bad,” Anne interrupts, “because I already called him. He’s expecting you tomorrow at eight.”

~~

It’s still dark out when Harry wakes up the next morning, and he grumbles in irritation as he gets out of bed. He likes Simon, though, respects him and enjoys working for him, so he showers and gets dressed and takes Gemma’s car into town. The sun has risen by the time he parks outside the bakery, and he takes a moment to look around. He’s only been gone two and a half months, but it feels like it’s been longer, and with all the different cities he’s seen, Holmes Chapel feels claustrophobic. He loves his town, but he’s ready for a change of scenery, something bigger and brighter and a little less familiar.

The bakery has been open nearly two hours by the time Harry gets there, and some of the employees have been there even longer, baking bread and cupcakes and cookies, frosting brownies and cakes and dusting them with sprinkles. Working there is mostly busy work - sweeping the floors, wiping down the displays, refilling air-tight containers with flour and sugar and edible pearls, but it takes his mind off of Louis and doesn’t give him time to check his phone.

Harry is exhausted by the time he gets home, and his body aches from all of the heavy lifting, but he feels lighter than he has in days, and for the first time since he’s been back, he manages to fall asleep within minutes of getting into bed.

~~

Harry settles into a routine. He gets up every morning with the sun, works at the bakery through lunch and into the evening, then goes home and spends a few hours with his family before collapsing into bed. Sometimes he goes out with his friends, lets them distract and cheer him with their jokes and their enthusiasm, laughs good naturedly when they tease him about being glued to his phone.

He still checks it every five minutes, desperate for a sign of contact from Louis, but gets more discouraged with every day that passes, chalks it up to a summer fling that he just can’t let go of, and when Gemma asks to see his photos from the trip nearly a month after getting back, he says okay. She pops down to the kitchen while he sets up his computer and drags another chair into his room, comes back with two bowls of spaghetti bolognese and a couple of beers.

“Okay, H, wow me.”

Harry slants her a look, says around a mouthful of spaghetti, “I am a master photographer. You’re going to be wowed.”

He starts at the beginning, works his way through Spain and into France and tells Gemma little stories about most of the places they’d been. As he clicks through Italy and lands on the photo of himself and Louis in the gondola, Louis’ hand on his knee like he’s staking a claim, it hits him like a physical blow when he realizes that he can see the progression of his relationship with Louis through these photos. They had gotten on right from the start, but it’s easy to see how quickly they had relaxed into each other, then how it had morphed from easy friendship to longing looks and adoring smiles, even before they had kissed.

By the time he gets through Rome and into Athens, his throat aches and his appetite has gone. He pushes his bowl away, just the smell of the sauce enough to make him nauseous, and Gemma frowns at him, rubs a hand over his back and says, “You alright, babe?”

Harry presses his lips together and nods, determined to get through it. Like ripping off a bandaid. Right.

He continues through Athens, manages to make Gemma laugh when he tells her about Louis’ horrible puns, but skips over the time Louis called him his boyfriend because just thinking about it feels like something is clawing at the back of his throat. Instead, he moves quickly on to Prague. Once he gets past Louis’ presence, he’s actually rather impressed with himself, looking through the photos. The camera on his phone is better than he had anticipated, and his photos have, for the most part, come out wonderfully.

“I think I might take up scrapbooking,” he muses as he clicks through into Germany, and Gemma raises an eyebrow at him. “What,” he says defensively. “These are good photos!”

“You are the strangest mixture of teenage boy and ninety year-old woman I have ever met, Harry Styles.”

“I’m _fantastic_ ,” Harry insists. Gemma just snorts and turns her attention back to the screen, and Harry mutters, “Rude.”

He takes her through Berlin, tells her about Louis deliberately pissing off the girls while playing drunken minigolf and getting caught making out at the Botanical Gardens. It gets a little bit easier, talking about Louis, as he gets through Berlin and into Cologne, but it gets difficult again when he comes up on the selfie of them kissing on top of the KoelnTriangle, and his stomach clenches painfully when he gets to the bridge. He doesn’t realize that he’s been rubbing at his padlock tattoo until Gemma tugs his hand away and lifts his arm so she can get a better look.

In lieu of saying anything, she wraps her arms around Harry’s neck and rests her cheek on his shoulder, and Harry leans into it gratefully. When he gets to Amsterdam, Gemma stops him on a photo of their hostel.

“Wow, queen-sized bunks? You two were like a proper couple, weren’t you.”

Harry sucks in a sharp breath and drops his gaze to the desk, frowns down at it and traces the grain of the wood until his heart has stopped pounding in his ears.

“I’m sorry,” Gemma whispers. “I didn’t mean to -”

“‘S alright,” Harry murmurs, even though it’s not at all okay. When he looks up again, Gemma is watching him, concern written across her face, and Harry braces himself when she opens her mouth.

“I guess I didn’t realize.”

Not what he had been expecting her to say. His brow furrows in confusion and he says, cautious, “Didn’t realize what?”

Gemma doesn’t say anything for a moment, just watches him carefully, lips pressed together, then says, “That you’re in love with him.”

Harry shakes his head quickly, opens his mouth to protest, but the words stick in his throat and he snaps his mouth shut with an audible click. He shakes his head again, for good measure, but he knows how he must look, and Gemma folds him into a hug, one hand cupped around the back of his head and the other stroking slowly up and down his back.

“Have you spoken to him?” She asks, words muffled where her face is buried in his hair, and Harry shakes his head again. “Why not?”

He digs his chin into her shoulder, clutches desperately at her sides and says, “I emailed him the day I got back, but he never responded.”

“You didn’t exchange numbers?”

“We did, but he hasn’t... and I just didn’t know if that meant he didn’t want to, or what, so I haven’t, either.”

Gemma pulls away so she can see Harry, hands on his shoulders, and says, “Well, did you make plans to see each other once you got back, at least?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Harry frowns. “Well, we don’t live in the same city, so.”

“So? He doesn’t live with his mum full-time, does he? Where does he go to uni?”

Harry pauses, tries to think back to all of the conversations they’d had over the past two months, and he can’t recall Louis mentioning the name of his uni even once. He looks up at Gemma, eyes wide, and says, voice small and amazed, “You know, I have no idea.”

Gemma shakes her head slowly, expression both amused and exasperated.

“Did you two talk about home at _all_?”

“Yes! He told me about Doncaster -”

“Less than two hours away.”

“And his sisters, and his best mate Stan, and all about his program at uni and his flatmate Zayn...”

“But in two months’ time,” Gemma says slowly, “he never _actually_ said the words, ‘I go to the university of such-and-such?’”

Harry shakes his head, one-hundred percent sure now.

“Nope. Never.”

“Wow.” Gemma sits back in her seat, hands clasped around her updrawn knee, and stares at Harry in shock. “Wow, Haz.”

Harry rubs the back of his neck, suddenly feeling like a complete idiot. How hard is it to ask someone what school they go to?

“We messed up.”

“Call him.”

“No,” Harry says with another shake of his head. “It’s been too long, it’s weird. He obviously doesn’t want to talk to me, Gem.”

“Or maybe he’s just sitting there thinking the exact same thing you are, waiting for you to make the first move.”

Harry scowls at Gemma.

“Stop that. There is no room for logic here.”

Gemma huffs out an annoyed breath and pushes back from the desk. She snatches up the two bowls but leaves the beers and starts out of the room. Just before she turns out into the hall, he hears her mutter, “Boys are such idiots.”

For once, he’s inclined to agree with her.

~~

With only two weeks left till school, Harry occupies his free time with getting ready for it - buys textbooks for his courses and fills out a roommate application, studies maps of the university and looks for a job in Manchester. He ends up applying to work in one of the campus libraries, and gets an email back requesting that he get to school a week early so that he can train for it. His friend Liam has been going to the University of Manchester for a year now, has his own flat in town, so he offers to let Harry stay with him till he can move into the dorms.

The weekend before he’s due to drive down to Manchester, he and his mum set up camp in the center of his bedroom and sort through all of his clothes. He’ll be less than an hour’s drive away, so they only pack his winter clothes, manage to fit it all into two suitcases so that he won’t clutter up Liam’s apartment.

Gemma offers to drive him, so Harry hugs and kisses his mum and Robin goodbye, stuffs his bags into the car, and sets off with her on Sunday evening. They don’t speak for most of the ride, radio filling the comfortable silence, but as they ease their way into Manchester proper, Gemma slides a look at Harry, says without preamble, “Promise me something?”

Harry turns toward her in the seat and tilts his head. “What’s that?”

“Try and make friends, okay? Uni is supposed to be fun, and if you spend all of it pining after Louis, you’ll miss out on a lot. You _will_ meet other people, H. People you might even want to date. Date them.”

Harry gives her a skeptical look, but he knows she means well and just wants him to be happy, so he sighs and nods, says, “I can do that.”

 

Liam’s apartment is small and sparsely furnished, but the sofa is enormous and there’s enough room for him to stack his suitcases into a corner, out of the way of foot traffic. They sit and chat briefly with Gemma before sending her on her way, then Liam pulls a small set of plastic bin drawers out of his bedroom and offers it to Harry to use for the week, so he doesn’t have to live entirely out of his suitcases.

“My flatmate will be back on Wednesday, otherwise you could have his room,” Liam says, expression apologetic, and Harry smiles, reaches out and cuffs him on the shoulder as he folds some clothes into the little plastic drawers.

“It’s fine, really. I think your sofa is actually big enough to fit me,” he says with a smile. “And thank you for letting me stay with you, I really appreciate it.”

“Of course, Harry, don’t mention it.”

They’re quiet for a moment, an awkward silence settling over the room, so Harry clears his throat and says, “Well, I have to be at the library at nine tomorrow, so -”

“Right, of course, let me show you where the bus stop is.”

Liam walks him to the bus stop, then shows him around the neighborhood so he won’t get bored, cooped up in the apartment while Liam is at work. They spend the rest of the night drinking beer and catching up, and Harry only checks his phone a handful of times.

 

The next few days pass quickly. Harry takes the bus to the library and spends his morning training to do things he could probably accomplish in his sleep. He gets lunch at a little cafe a few buildings down, then goes back to training for a few hours before riding the bus back. Afterward, he stumbles up the stairs to Liam’s empty apartment, settles on the sofa, and watches mindless television until Liam gets back. Not a thrilling way to live, but training keeps him busy, and he gets some time to himself while Liam is at work, so it’s not all bad.

On Wednesday, he’s half-dozing on the sofa, feeling sorry for himself while he watches an episode of Floyd on Italy on the Travel Channel, when the front door squeaks open an hour before Liam is due back. Harry doesn’t bother moving from his sprawl against the armrest, just calls out, “Liam?”

A stranger pokes his head around the corner. He’s got a floppy quiff and an enormous smile, and he strolls into the room and says, “You must be Harry. I’m Aiden, Liam’s flatmate.”

“Oh!” Feeling a bit like an ass for lounging all over this boy’s furniture when he doesn’t even know him, Harry scrambles up, stretches a hand out to shake. “Sorry about the...”

He gestures to the sofa, but Aiden just waves him off, drops onto the end of it and kicks his feet up onto the coffee table. They spend the rest of the time waiting for Liam to get home chatting idly with the television on mute. Aiden is lovely, sweet and awkwardly charming and easy to get along with, and by the time Liam gets home, Aiden is already promising Harry that they’re going to go out on the lash Thursday night, give him a _proper_ introduction to Manchester before Liam makes Harry do the boring stuff, like the campus tour he’s got planned for Friday afternoon.

Wednesday night is easily Harry’s best night since getting back from Copenhagen. Liam and Aiden ply him with cheap pizza and expensive beer and don’t ask him a single question about Europe. Instead, they talk about football and Master Chef, music and their studies, and Harry goes to bed well past midnight, doesn’t realize until the next morning that he hasn’t checked his phone in nearly twelve hours.

 

True to his word, Aiden drags Liam and Harry out to a club Thursday night. It’s packed full of returning students, and Harry has to hold on to Liam’s shoulder so he won’t lose him in the crowd as they fight their way to the bar. He has a moment, a long, heart-stopping moment, where he thinks he sees a flash of familiar blue walk past, but when he whirls around, the boy walking away has his hair gelled up into a quiff and is wearing a shirt Harry has never seen before, so he chalks it up to an over-active imagination and wishful thinking and continues off after Liam and Aiden.

Feeling slightly sorry for himself over this relapse into thinking about Louis, Harry gets spectacularly drunk and lets Aiden drag him out onto the dance floor. Aiden’s very fit, and Harry thinks that maybe, when he’s managed to make it a full day without calling up Louis’ name in his phonebook, he might just take Gemma’s advice and ask him out properly. For now, though, they just dance and laugh and drink, stumble home at two in the morning and barely make into their respective beds before passing out.

Despite the fact that Harry feels like he’s been hit by a train, Liam drags him out of bed the next day for his campus tour with a promise of a handful of paracetamol and some very strong tea.

It’s cold out, windy and gray with a promise of a harsh winter, and Harry tucks his nose down into his scarf as Liam walks him through the important buildings. There are a few students milling about, lying in the grass between the buildings with blankets wrapped around them or walking across the campus bundled up in coats and jumpers against the fierce wind. He catches sight of a group of girls playing frisbee as he trails after Liam and listens to his spiel, and he watches them toss the bright red disc back and forth, vaguely jealous of their coordination and the fact that they’re running around in shirts and shorts in this ridiculous weather.

“Most of your first year courses will probably be centered around here,” Liam says, as he points down at the lawn they’re currently stood on. “There’s a cafe in that building, and a canteen in that one, and behind you is a Starbucks.”

Harry turns to look at the building Liam is indicating, and stumbles forward unexpectedly when something hits him in the back. He hears someone cursing behind him and looks over at Liam in confusion. He’s just staring, wide-eyed, over Harry’s shoulder, mouth hanging open in shock, and then there’s the sound of footsteps on grass and someone saying, “Shit, I’m so sorry. That was my mate, he’s rubbish at football. I don’t even know why we let him play with us, honestly...”

Harry’s heart lodges itself in his throat, and his heart rate picks up, pounding triple-time in his chest as he registers the voice apologizing over and over. He _knows_ that voice. He turns around slowly, almost afraid he’s imagining things, and even more afraid that he’s not. He’s having a hard time breathing, already feels a bit unsteady on his feet, so when he comes face to face with a sweaty, wide-eyed Louis, he thinks he might actually pass out.

“- Really, so sorry, he didn’t mean to -” Louis cuts off his string of apologies, says, tone incredulous, “ _Harry_?”

He barely manages to whisper, “Hi, Louis,” around the lump in his throat. He vaguely registers that there’s another boy standing behind Louis, slender and beautiful, with huge, dark eyes and an impressively tall quiff, before Liam cuts in.

“Wait, I’m confused. Do you two know each other?”

“Yes, I -” Harry cuts off, not really sure how to finish the sentence in the wake of all that’s happened. In the end, he just mumbles, “Yeah, we know each other.”

Louis doesn’t bother answering Liam, hasn’t taken his eyes off Harry for a second since he turned around. He drops the football onto the grass, rolls it absently underneath his foot and says, “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I. I go to school here?” He’s not sure why he phrases it like a question, so he tacks on, “My mate Liam was just showing me around, I don’t...”

Liam steps forward at his name, stretches a hand out and says, “I’m Liam.”

“Louis,” Louis answers distractedly. He shakes Liam’s hand briefly, but still hasn’t looked away from Harry. “You go to school here?” Harry nods. “Here. At University of Manchester.”

Harry nods again, not sure what part of his ‘yes’ was unclear.

Louis just shakes his head, expression dazed, then says carefully, “How have you been?”

Harry barks out a humorless laugh and shakes his head, looks down at his feet while he scuffs the toe of his boot through the grass.

“I’ve been better. You know.”

“Right,” Louis mumbles. He clears his throat, then repeats in a whisper, “Right.”

Harry looks up at Louis, but he’s looking down, now, watching his foot as he rolls the football back and forth. It’s smeared with grass stains and bits of mud, and Harry thinks absently that playing football in Chuck Taylors with no socks on sounds extremely uncomfortable.

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, hopes Liam hasn’t caught on to the tension that’s woven itself into the air around them. He clears his throat, says in a strained voice, “What about you? Have have you been?”

Louis looks up at him through his lashes, says with a sardonic smile, “I’ve been better. You know.”

Harry frowns at that, watches Louis’ expression falter. Louis drops his gaze to his foot again, then clears his throat and looks back up, says hesitantly, “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, Liam, or. Or forward, but... Harry, do you want to go get some tea? And talk?”

Harry glances over at Liam. He doesn’t want to just leave him, right in the middle of the tour, and there’s a very big chance that going off with Louis is a horrible idea, but. But this is _Louis_. Louis, who he hasn’t seen or heard from in six weeks. Louis, who he’s been trying desperately to forget, but who already has his heart rabbiting in his chest and his cheeks flushing pink; has want crawling under his skin with the way his hair is matted to his forehead and the sleeves of his jumper are pushed up over his forearms; has every feeling he’s been trying to suppress over the last month and a half crashing back into him like a wave. He feels dizzy.

Liam is looking back and forth between Harry and Louis, eyes wide and curious, and when Harry asks him quietly if he minds, Liam only hesitates a moment before shaking his head.

“We can walk around again Saturday, if you want.”

“Thanks Liam,” Harry says gratefully, and he gives him a quick hug before turning back to Louis.

“I’m Zayn, by the way,” the boy behind him says with a little wave. He tacks on, “Sorry about the football. And this one’s manners.”

He jerks a thumb toward Louis with a little half smile, doesn’t even flinch when Louis elbows him in the side.

“But,” Zayn says, cocks his head to the side, “I guess you know all about his lack of manners already. Harry, is it?”

Harry can’t quite make out the expression on Zayn’s face when he turns to look pointedly at Louis, but Louis ignores him completely, taps the football over to Zayn and points toward the building Liam had been talking about before this whole encounter had begun.

“Harry? Tea?”

Harry nods quickly, offer a smile and a wave to Zayn and Liam, then follows Louis slowly across the grass. It’s awkward between them while they walk, painfully so, and Harry doesn’t know how to break the tense silence. He lets Louis buy his tea and doesn’t say anything when Louis remembers his order, just follows him quietly to a table in the back.

He can feel Louis staring at him while he stirs his drink, head bowed over his cup like it holds the answers to all of his questions. He’s just not ready yet, not ready to look up and see Louis again after six weeks of waiting by the phone like an idiot. A few minutes pass while they let their teas cool off, then Harry takes a few experimental sips while he works himself up toward saying something.

Finally, he looks up, keeps his expression carefully blank while he says quietly, “I emailed you.”

He watches Louis’ expression shift from one of careful observation to one of surprise, then settle onto apologetic, with what Harry thinks, _hopes_ , might be a hint of regret.

“Yeah, I know, I.” Louis cuts himself off and takes a slow breath, mutters, “Shit. Look, for what it’s worth, I wanted to text you. I just...”

He falls silent for a moment, expression helpless and sad. Harry doesn’t say anything, just waits for him to continue while he drinks his tea.

“I slept for the entire first week I was back. Like, only got up to take a piss, eat some toast, and kiss my sisters, and that was it for a solid week. By then, I thought it would be weird to respond to the email so late, and when you didn’t text or call, I thought maybe...”

Harry sets his cup down, pushes it back from the edge of the table with a finger and says slowly, “I thought, when you didn’t answer my email, that you didn’t want to talk to me anymore. Thought maybe it was just a summer fling and that was it.”

“Well, I -”

Harry jerks his head up, heart thumping painfully in his chest at the implication behind Louis’ words. His cheeks flush pink, mortification at his inability to let things go when clearly he should have. Louis must be able to read the panic on his face, because he reaches his hand out to grip Harry’s wrist.

“No, look, we didn’t know we’d be going to the same university, okay? And like, England is small, but it’s still big enough, and I can’t do long-distance relationships, alright.”

Harry ignores the surge of hope at what Louis is saying, at the word ‘relationship,’ tries to stay reasonable. Instead, he says, “Why didn’t we know we’re going to the same uni?”

Louis doesn’t let go of Harry’s wrist, and Harry holds himself still, not ready for a loss of contact if Louis realizes that he’s still holding onto him. He’s missed this, Louis’ chilly fingers on his skin, Louis across from him, and he has to physically restrain himself before he does something stupid, like reach his foot out and hook it around the back of Louis’ ankle.

“I don’t know,” Louis says slowly. “You never asked.”

“ _You_ never asked,” Harry points out, and Louis nods.

“Fair enough. Lack of communication on both parts.”

They’re quiet for another long moment, and Harry narrows his focus down to Louis’ thumb stroking absently over the inside of his wrist, the tap of Louis’ foot on the tile floor, the way Louis’ eyes are roaming his face, like he’s trying to drink him in. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, he’s not sure what, when Louis cuts him off.

“Look, I know you’re probably mad at me, and probably don’t want to see me, but I think -”

“You’re wrong.”

Louis stares at Harry for a moment, then says slowly, “About what? You’re not mad at me?”

“No, you’re right about that, although it’s my fault, as well, for not just calling or texting you anyway, but.” He lowers his gaze to the table top, not sure he wants to be looking at Louis for this part. It’s hard enough to think, much less say, but he doesn’t want to freak Louis out by demanding too much, too soon. “I had a really good time this summer, and if you think you’d want to be friends, I’d really like that.”

“Friends,” Louis repeats, voice flat, and Harry nods, still looking down. He can see his own reflection in the glossy wood, the pinch of his mouth and the sweep of his eyelashes, and he waits anxiously for Louis to answer him. “Yeah, I...”

Harry catches a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, the brush of Louis’ thumb against his skin, and tilts his head a bit so he can see the side of the table better, freezes when he gets a better look. Louis’ hand is still curved around his wrist, thumb pressing firmly into his pulse point, and there’s something -

Voice confused, and what he thinks might be slightly hysterical, Harry says, “What is that?”

“What?”

Harry looks up, realized belatedly that Louis had been talking this whole time, and he hasn’t been listening, too distracted by his thoughts and Louis’ movements to pay attention. He points at Louis’ hand, repeats, “What is that?”

He catches the way Louis’ cheeks flush pink, the way he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and chews on it nervously as he carefully pulls his hand away and covers it with his left. He opens his mouth to explain, gets as far as, “Look, I -”

But Harry cuts him off, reaches across the table and tugs his right hand back over. He spreads Louis’ fingers apart, presses his palm flat to the table, and ducks his head. He stares down at Louis’ hand, at the little black outline inked into the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger, then looks up at Louis.

“Is this real?”

Louis shrugs self-consciously, still chewing on his lip, then nods. “Yeah, it’s real.”

“When did you...” He looks back down at Louis’ hand, traces over the little starfish with the tip of his finger, then looks back up, eyes wide. He can feel it, can feel the hope clawing its way up from his stomach at what he _thinks_ this means, but he’s still wary. “Why? I thought you hadn’t experienced anything worth remembering forever?”

Louis shrugs again, a quick jerk of his shoulders, then says, voice barely more than a whisper, “I lied.”

Harry sits up slowly, finally lets go of Louis’ hand, though Louis leaves it on the table, fingers still splayed against the wood.

“I don’t understand.”

He watches Louis lift his other hand to brush his fringe out of his eyes and let out a fluttery breath, expression nervous.

“Look,” Louis starts, and he drops his other hand to the table, as well, lifts his gaze so he’s staring Harry directly in the eyes. “I don’t really like talking about this kind of thing, feelings, and all that, so I try not to think about them very much? But I had a lot of fun, too, and I really _like_ you, and I thought... I thought I would be fine, right, going back to my normal life, but it was really hard. Do you know how hard it is to get a proper night’s sleep alone after sharing a bed with someone for two months?”

Harry doesn’t answer, so Louis continues, “The first email in my inbox was the picture from the top of that building in Cologne.”

Harry’s chest aches. He can see Louis’ fingers tapping nervously against the table out of the corners of his eyes, but he keeps his hands to himself, clasped and tucked between his knees. That photo is the background of his phone, and even though it hurts every time he sees is, he hasn’t been able to bring himself to change it.

“You can see the bridge in the background,” Louis continues, “and I kept thinking about those padlocks, and your tattoo, and I realized that I wanted to remember this summer. I wanted to remember _you_ , even if you didn’t want to remember me, so I made Zayn take me to get this done.”

“When?”

Louis bites his lip, lowers his gaze so his lashes sweep the tops of his cheekbones. He mumbles, “Second week we were back.”

“Fuck.” Harry leans forward in his seat, the edge of the table digging into his stomach. “ _Louis_.”

“I know!” Louis looks up at Harry again, eyes wide and unsure. He finally draws his hands back, wraps them around himself and says quietly, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t - you said you just want to be friends, and that’s fine, I don’t.” He pauses, and Harry watches his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “I don’t mind.”

Louis looks miserable, curled into himself, and Harry feels this overwhelming wave of relief wash over him. He can’t stop his lips from curling up into a small smile as he leans back in his seat and sets his hands, still clasped together, on the table.

“You know,” he says casually, even though his heart is doing flips inside his chest, “my sister once told me that boys are idiots.” Louis looks up, confused, but Harry shakes his head and leans forward again so his chest is pressed down over his hands. He leans in close, close enough that their faces are only a foot apart, and says very clearly, “You are a complete idiot, Louis Tomlinson.”

“Wait, why am _I_ an idiot -”

Harry cuts him off by curling a hand in the front of his jumper and yanking him forward into a kiss. Louis stays frozen at first, and Harry has a moment of mind-numbing panic that he’d misinterpreted Louis’ little speech, but then Louis melts into it, parts his lips under Harry’s and works his fingers into Harry’s hair to try and tug him closer. There’s too much table and two tottering cups of tea in the way, though, and Harry has to pull back reluctantly.

Louis whines at the loss, and Harry can’t help the grin that takes over his face, smile so wide his cheeks ache. He can’t stop smiling, even when he says, “You broke my fucking heart, Louis Tomlinson. You better not do it again.”

Louis’ expression is completely serious when he shakes his head and says, “I won’t. I promise I won’t.”

Harry reaches out for Louis’ hand again, holds it in his as he traces the starfish over and over. Without a second thought, he reaches his foot out and hooks it behind Louis’ ankle under the table, bites his lip around another blinding grin when Louis closes his other foot around Harry’s calf and swings their legs together.

“I can’t believe you got a starfish tattoo.” He looks up at Louis with a smirk. “I thought they were for twelve year old girls?”

Louis shrugs, cheeks pink as he mumbles, “Feels like you turn me into a twelve year old, honestly.”

Harry presses a laugh into the back of Louis’ hand, says teasingly, “Louise.”

“Ugh.” Louis tugs his hand away and shoves at Harry’s shoulder, though his smile belies any real annoyance. “I’m not _actually_ a little girl, Harry. It's just Louis.”

Harry leers at him, drops his gaze deliberately to Louis’ mouth and says in a low voice, “Oh, I know.”

He watches Louis bite his lip, licks his own subconsciously as desire curls in his belly.

“Hey,” Louis says, and Harry lifts his eyes back to Louis’. “You want to get out of here?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” He pushes back from the table and grabs his still half-full cup of tea, waits for Louis to lead the way toward the exit. “Shit. Wait, no, hold on. I don’t know how to get back to Liam’s from anywhere but the library, and we can’t go back to Liam’s, because I’m sleeping on the sofa.”

Louis rolls his eyes. He grabs Harry’s cup from him and throws both of their teas into the rubbish bin, then reaches out and links their hands, fingers slotted together.

“Haz, I’ve been living here for two years, I think I can get you back to Liam’s later.”

Harry chews on his lip a moment, then says, “Are you sure? I mean, I can get Liam’s address, I just need to text him.”

“I’m sure,” Louis says firmly, starts pulling him toward the door. “I won’t let you wander around town aimlessly, Harry, don’t worry.”

They pause just outside the door so Harry can button up his coat and Louis can tug the sleeves of his jumper down over his wrists. Louis makes a point to grasp his hand again before leading him out across the quad, and Harry grins stupidly down at them, at the little outline of a starfish inked permanently into Louis’ skin.

Louis squeezes his hand, then says casually, “Just to be sure, though you should probably stick with me. You know, to avoid rash behavior.”

“Right,” Harry says, so giddily happy that he feels buoyant with it. He squeezes Louis’ hand, and his heart flutters so fast he goes breathless when Louis says -

“Exactly.”

 

 _fin_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, I don't know how this thing got so long. Um, okay, so this story literally would not have been possible without the godsends that are tripadvisor and google maps, because I literally spent hours on both of those sites before I wrote each city, planning out the places the boys would visit and putting them all on a map so I could figure out what made sense to visit on the same day. (Seriously, you could actually use this fic as a guide for your own tour of Europe. Just know that it would be really, really fucking expensive, holy shit, the Eurail alone is ridiculous.) This is what I choose to do with my time instead of, I don't know, writing my master's thesis. I suck. (Let's pretend and call it dedication, though.)
> 
> And of course, endless thank you's to Michelle (goddamnitharold) and Paula (who still doesn't have a tumblr, rude) for being amaaaaazing betas/hand-holders/idea-givers and like, just for putting up with me, because I am literally the neediest human being. I feel like I'm giving a fucking acceptance speech or something, omg why am I so obnoxious, OKAY.
> 
> ALSO! The information about the bakery came from some article I found online that said it's owned by a dude named Simon, and that Harry basically just kept the place clean, so. If that's wrong, my bad, because to be fair, it was published in The Mirror, but I didn't know otherwise, sooooo. If it's wrong, more ~suspension of disbelief~, I guess! That's why we call it an AU. :P
> 
> Basically, you guys are all amazing and thank you so much for reading this self-indulgent MONSTER and encouraging me to keep going with your comments and messages and ugh, you're all so nice I want to bake every single one of you cupcakes and deliver them to you with hugs! As alwayssss, if you have questions or comments or want to chat, I am supernope over on tumblr as well, so. I think that's it! 


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